


Lost and Found

by iliveatlast



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Cussing, Father-Daughter Relationship, Past Child Abuse, Past Domestic Violence, Past Sexual Abuse, Self-Harm, Sophia Peletier Lives
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-24
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:06:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 14
Words: 51,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24902044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iliveatlast/pseuds/iliveatlast
Summary: What if Daryl found her? Or, more to the point - what if Sophia found him?Starts in Chupacabra, branches out from there.
Comments: 62
Kudos: 151





	1. Ghosts and Dreams

He's not dying. 

It's the first thing Daryl thinks to himself any time he gets hurt. It's reflexive - after a nasty wipeout on Merle's bike, nursing busted ribs and black eyes from bar fights, that time he fell off a roof working construction in Amicalola, coming down from a bad trip with panic in his chest, after eighteen years of living with his old man - after something's gone bad and he's hurt, the first thing he thinks is, he ain't dying. It helps somehow. Because if he's not dying then the only thing to do is suck it up, keep moving, get himself put back together. No other option. He's either dying or he ain't, and if he ain't, the only thing to do is get up. And so far, he's always been right. Daryl's gotten the shit kicked out of him more times than he can count but he's always gotten back up again. He hasn't died yet.   
  
_I ain't dying_ , Daryl thinks to himself, but it's the first time he's not sure if it's true. 

He blinks, tries to get the blood out of the corner of his eye. His side feels wrong, bad, stuck through on his own arrow like a fucking joke. The first time he'd fallen, landed in the water, he'd half-swum his way back out, tied himself up with his shirt, found his fucking bow and gotten on with it.   
  
"Y'ain't dead," Daryl'd mumbled under his breath as he pulled himself up the side of the creekbed. "You ain't dying, you dumb sumbitch. Come on. You've done half. Stop being such a pussy."

As the ground gave way under his hands and he fell the second time, Daryl thought maybe he spoke too soon. 

* * *

The air above him is hazy and unclear and Daryl blinks once, twice. His eyes won't focus. That's bad. That's a concussion thing, that's -   
  
"Whyn't you pull that arrow out, dummy? You can bind your wound better."  
  
Oh, no.   
  
The air is still hazy but somehow Merle is ultra clear, kneeling over him, his face almost amused. Which Daryl thinks is a good sign because Merle's seen a lot of shit and if he thinks there's something funny here, it means Daryl's not as bad off as he thought. He feels a smile over his own face but it makes his whole head hurt and he closes his eyes again.   
  
"Merle."  
  
"What's goin' on here?"   
  
"Shitty day, bro." His head is throbbing in time to his side, his shirt sticking to him wetly (with the water, from the creek, not from blood, he ain't dying), his mouth tasting of dirt and iron, and all Daryl wants, desperately, is to wake up on the shitty couch in Merle's trailer with a hangover and bruised knuckles and for the past couple months to have been nothing but dipping into the wrong part of his brother's stash. 

He misses what Merle says next but the tone is so familiar, wheedling at Daryl like some kind of fucking kid, some baby needs taking care of, and Daryl knows the response to that even without hearing the rest.

"Screw you."  
  
"Huh-uh. You're the one screwed from the looks of it."  
  
And he is. Daryl's fucked. Punctured with his own arrow, bleeding in the bottom of some creekbed, horse gone, nobody there to watch his back. Because Merle's gone.   
  
Oh. Merle's gone.   
  
"You're gonna die out here, brother. And for what?"  
  
Maybe he is dying this time. Even Merle thinks it. And this Merle isn't real, because Merle is gone, running around one handed somewhere, if he's still running at all. 

Maybe he's really dying and Merle is already dead and he came to find Daryl.   
  
"Girl," Daryl says, because that's what he remembers all of a sudden. He doesn't need Merle to come find him, because he's the one out looking. He's looking for Sophia, he remembers now, and it makes something kick in his stomach, something get clearer around his vision. "Lost a little girl."  
  
"You got a think for little girls now?"  
  
"Shut up," Daryl says, something sick crawling in his skin. It ain't like that. He ain't like that. Merle knows he ain't -  
  
"Cause I notice you ain't out looking for ole Merle no more."  
  
Oh. That's what it is. Yeah, Merle talked a big fucking game, taking care of Daryl, always having his back. But he'd disappeared for huge stretches at a time, juvie or prison, the army, out on a bender who knows where and only rolling back into town when he ran out of money. But Daryl was meant to be there for Merle, have his back, twenty-four seven, never stop, never have a life (Merle cackling, "What would you even know what to do with a life?") -  
  
"Tried like hell to find you, bro," he tries to explain, but Merle ain't listening. He never listens. Not to Daryl, anyway.  
  
Daryl loses another chunk of the conversation somewhere. He knows Merle is talking and he's talking back - conversations with Merle aren't hard, especially when the Merle he's talking to is either a ghost or made up in his own head - until he hears "You his bitch now?"  
  
"Ain't nobody's bitch," Daryl says, automatically, that same feeling crawling in his stomach. It ain't like that. Who are they even talking about? Rick. Merle's saying he's Rick's -

"You're a joke is what you are, playing errand boy to a bunch of pansy-asses, niggers and democrats. You're nothing but a freak to them. Redneck trash. That's all you are."  
  
He doesn't need Merle to tell him this. He knows it. That's the only reason Merle can tell it to him - because it's something he knows, understands, deep in his bones.   
  
"They're laughing at you behind your back. You know that, don't you? I got a little news for you, son. One day they gonna scrape you off their heels like you was dogshit. Hey."  
  
He can almost feel Merle smacking at his chest, trying to get him to pay attention. But it's so hard.  
  
"They ain't your kin, your blood. Hell, you had any damn nuts in that sack of yours, you'd got back there and shoot your pal Rick in the face for me. Now you listen to me. Ain't nobody ever gonna care about you except me, little brother. Nobody ever will."  
  
Yeah. Daryl's known that his whole life. Ain't nothing new.  
  
"Don't be dead."  
  
He ain't dead. Not yet. But he's close, he figures. Someone is shaking at his shoulders again now - the touch too light to be Merle. He groans and tries to pull back.   
  
"Please don't be dead. Please, please -"  
  
It's a woman, maybe. His ma? She wouldn't want him to be dead. She's dead herself though, so why would she care -   
  
"Mr. Daryl, wake up. Please wake up."  
  
Wait.   
  
Wait.   
  
Daryl's eyes feel almost glued shut, it's so hard to open them. But he manages somehow, he pries them open and he squints and - 

There, directly above him, is the worried, freckled face of Sophia Peletier. 

* * *

No. Oh, no.   
  
"I'm sorry," Daryl croaks out, and Sophia's face floods with what looks like relief.   
  
"You're awake!"  
  
"M'sorry," he says again. Because she isn't real. Merle was here with two hands and now here's Sophia and that must mean they're dead, all three of them. All his looking was bullshit. He didn't find her in time. He wants to scream somehow but he doesn't want to scare her.   
  
"Where's my mom?"  
  
Ghosts are meant to know that shit. Ain't they? Daryl doesn't know a lot about ghosts. He grew up on ghost stories Merle told, shit that made him scared to go to sleep, where ghosts strangled you in the dark or drove you crazy or possessed you. He didn't know shit about sad little girl ghosts who wanted their mamas.  
  
"Back at the farm," Daryl says. "Worried."  
  
"I - where's the farm?"  
  
"C'n show you," Daryl slurs. He waves a hand. "When it's over."  
  
"When what's over?"  
  
"When'm all the way gone."  
  
There's a long pause and when Sophia speaks again, her voice is choked and rough.   
  
"No, no. Please don't die, please, please - we have to go, the walkers -"  
  
"M'sorry," Daryl says again, and something tugs on his shirt, hard.   
  
"Wake up! Don't go to sleep, wake up, please, you have to help me - please please please -"  
  
For a ghost her grip is strong. He feels her hands on his chest and they somehow feel more real than Merle's. More solid. He can almost feel the head of her hands through his wet shirt, warm on his clammy skin. It's so real he opens his eyes again and sees her. Her lip is wobbling like crazy and her cheeks have two red spots of color in them.   
  
Sophia's dirtier than last time he saw her. Her hair is all tangled and there's a smear of dirt over one cheekbone and her arms are all marked up with what looks like pricker scratches. Her pants are ripped at the knees and grass stained and her face almost looks older. Maybe because she's scared, or maybe because she looks a little thinner than she did four days ago.   
  
Merle hadn't looked like this. Merle had looked exactly the same as he had the last time Daryl saw him. Daryl shakes his head a little, groans as the movement jars his brain. There's something missing here. There's something he's not getting.   
  
"Please stay awake," she says, and she sounds like she's going to cry. "I - I don't know how to get out of here by myself."  
  
"I'll getcha out," Daryl says. It sounds like a promise. How fucking stupid is he, making a promise to a ghost?

"Don't go to sleep," she begs, and he nods again as his eyes start to close.   
  
"No, no no no -" he hears Sophia saying, and then Merle is back.   
  
"You're dumber'n shit. You find this girl and you're gonna let her get eaten?"  
  
"Gone," Daryl mumbles. "We're gone."  
  
"You ain't dying, you fuckin' moron. Now get up 'fore I have to kick your teeth in."  
  
Something splashes somewhere nearby.   
  
"Let's go!"  
  
And then Sophia is shrieking and Daryl's eyes snap open faster than he thought possible. Because ghosts don't sound like that, ghosts don't sound scared, ghosts don't scramble over him with sharp little knees digging into his wounded side as they try and get away from walkers.   
  
Walker.   
  
Sophia.   
  
He found her.   
  
Or more to the point - she found him.   
  
He's not going to lose her again. Not now. Not after all this.   
  
Daryl kicks out with pure instinct, but it's enough to move the walker off to one side. Daryl's scooting back on his ass, hand flailing out for his bow, and he backs into Sophia.   
  
"What do I do, what do I -"  
  
"My bow," Daryl yells, and he slams his weak fists into the walker, turns it onto its side. "Fuck girl, gimme my bow!"  
  
"Where is it? I can't see it, I -"  
  
He grabs a stick near him and slams it into the walker's mouth over and over until the head is a wet, pulpy mess. There's not even hardly time to register that the walker in front of him is finished when he sees the next one staggering out of the woods.  
  
"I've got it! I've got -" Sophia's crawled over to his bow and is lugging it back towards him. "I -"  
  
Fuck. This is going to hurt.   
  
Daryl doesn't scream when he pulls the bolt out of his side - he's not some pussy, and he ain't dying. But it hurts like a bitch and he hears himself, a sharp little whimper as the fletching tears through his skin.   
  
"Bow!" Daryl yells out, and the bow is there, in his lamp, wet from being soaked in the water, but solid and real. Drawing back is harder than it's ever been, even when he was just a weedy little kid lugging around his dad's Barnett Thunderbolt. But he manages to pull back and nock the arrow just in time.   
  
The walker falls, the arrow piercing through its skull, landing right between him and Sophia. He can hear her breathing behind him, shaky and quick.   
  
"Y'a'right?" Daryl asks. He's panting too. His side is on fire. He can feel the blood leaking out of him, soaking into the sandy grit of the creekbed. But somehow he feels better too. Livelier. Less confused.   
  
Merle ain't here. But Sophia is. And he's got to get her home.   
  
She nods at him. But her eyes are welling up with tears and she sniffles, once.   
  
"Ain't no time for that," Daryl says roughly. And there isn't. There's a lot to do to get home, with him fucking skewered like a shish kabob and the horse spooked off who the hell knows where.   
  
"I - it's not - I'm not scared," Sophia says, her lip wobbling like crazy. "I - I just - I didn't think anybody'd find me."  
  
"Yeah, well," Daryl says, propping himself up against the rocks so he can get a good look at her. "Din't find you. You found me."  
  
She nods but her lip doesn't stop wobbling.   
  
"I gotta - I gotta rest a minute," he says. It's different than earlier. He doesn't feel like he's about to pass out or hallucinate anymore, but his whole body is screaming from what he'd put it through the last few minutes. "Then we gotta go."  
  
Sophia bites her lip. "Okay."  
  
Daryl looks at the walker near him. One last push. He reaches over to the front of the skull, where the fletching of the bolt pokes out. He grips it tight between his fingers. Its slippery with blood - his own? Or the walkers? Not worth thinking about. He pulls the bolt out. Grits his teeth as he cocks the bow one more time. That really takes it out of him. His arms feel like spaghetti or some shit. But the bow is cocked and loaded. He beckons the girl over.   
  
"C'mere."  
  
She looks almost scared as she comes near him. He doesn't blame her. He's covered in dirt and blood and walker shit and he's holding a fucking crossbow. But he just waits til she sits next to him and he holds out the bow.   
  
"Don't fire 'less you need to. Try an' get me up first. But if somethin's comin' an' I ain't wakin', you pull that trigger here, a'right? Aim for he head."  
  
Daryl tries not to think of the likelihood of this little girl in her rainbow tee shirt having good aim. It's better than leaving her totally unprotected. It'll have to do. He leans back against the rock and closes his eyes. Feels something digging into this back. Reaches around and pulls.   
  
"Think this is yours," he says gruffly, and he holds out the sodden doll, now stained a little with his blood. Maybe she doesn't want it anymore, all gross like that. But she takes it with one hesitant hand, tucks it in the crook of her elbow. It looks weird, cradled there, the bow gripped in her hands right next to it.  
  
"Where you pull to fire?" he asks as his eyes start to close.  
  
"The trigger," the girl says promptly, even though her face looks pale and scared. She bites her lip. "You - you promise you'll wake up, right?"  
  
The bow looks heavy enough to break those little stick arms of hers, and Daryl scoffs.   
  
"Course I'll wake up. I ain't dyin'."

He isn't. And neither is she.   
  
Not if he has anything to say about it.


	2. Hobbled

Daryl's head is clearer when he wakes up. He'd say he feels better, but he feels like shit. But he guesses shit is better than dead shit, so he'll take it.   
  
Sophia is crouched next to him still, crossbow cradled in her lap. When he opens his eyes, he staring at the head of an arrow.   
  
"Point that shit somewhere else," Daryl says, and it comes out almost like a growl. Sophia jumps then and Daryl feels his life flash before him - but her finger isn't on the trigger and soon the bow is pointed wildly elsewhere.  
  
"Sorry," she says. Her cheeks look red and she's biting her lip. Her brow is furrowed in a way that looks weird on a kid. "I - I was scared you'd -"  
  
Turn. Daryl looks down at himself. Yeah, he does look pretty close to walker food. But he isn't dead. And he's not going to be until he gets this girl home. That's enough. Daryl nods at her.   
  
"I ain't bit. But that was, uh. Smart," he says grudgingly. And it was. If Daryl's stuck out here all fucked up, at least the girl's got some brains to help them get home. The crease between her eyebrows lessens at that.   
  
Fuck. Daryl doesn't know kids. He didn't like kids even when he was one. They'd all been loud and rude and picked on Daryl like crazy, until Merle beat them up. Then they never talked to him at all. Well, whatever. Ain't like they're going to be together that long. Just got to make their way back to the farm, hand her off to her mama, and that'd be that. 

"In the future," Daryl says, his voice gravelly. "Don't point that at nothin' you don't want dead."  
  
Sophia swallows and nods.   
  
Daryl sets to work getting himself ready for the trek back. His legs are fine, which is good. He'd already ripped the sleeves off his shirt for the first bandage, but that one is soaked through so he rips the rest of his shirt up. Wasn't one of his favorite anyway, but he's sure he'll regret it come fall - it was one of the only ones he'd had left with intact sleeves. Sophia watches his every move carefully. Daryl can't tell if she's trying to learn something or if she just wants to make sure he doesn't keel over on her.   
  
"Is - is my mom okay?"

Daryl looks up at the girl. She's looks like she's trying to be brave, which actually just makes her look little and scared.   
  
"Yeah," Daryl says. He swivels his torso, tests the bandage. It'll hold. "Mean - worried 'bout you. But she ain't hurt or nothin'."  
  
The girl nods.   
  
"Found a farm," Daryl adds. "Been usin' it as a base, to look for you. Maybe couple hours walk." Probably more than that, without that fucking horse and with him all banged up. But Daryl pushes that aside. He'll get her there. No matter how long it takes.   
  
Weirdly, that makes the girl seem more worried. She's chewing at her lip so hard he's surprised there's anything left. He sees her throat bob up and down like she's swallowing hard. What'd he do now?  
  
"Ain't - we left you a note," Daryl says. Maybe she thinks her mama forgot about her or something. "Back at the cars. But farm was safer, that's all." He doesn't mention Carl getting shot. Ain't anything she needs to worry about right now.  
  
She nods again. "Um - Mr. Daryl -"  
  
"Jus' Daryl." Fuck. Southern mamas and their manners. Back at the quarry, he'd heard her refer to people as Officer Shane or Miss Jacqui, but he hadn't thought Carol'd ever told her to call Daryl anything special. Hell, he was surprised she knew his name at all. At the quarry, he and Merle had kept a certain amount of distance from the others where possible. Especially the kids.   
  
Sophia flinches at that. Fuck. Is everything he does gonna scare her? "Um, I - I need to find a stick."  
  
What? Daryl wonders if he's fading out again, if he's hearing things. "A what?"  
  
"A - a stick?" Sophia points at the bloody mess of walker head, a big stick jutting out from it. "I - uh, I was using that one, but -"  
  
"Usin' for what?"   
  
That makes her more nervous. Daryl sees her fingers twisting in the ragged yarn hair of her doll. "Um - I, uh, I -"   
  
Daryl makes himself stay still. He doesn't want to scare her. He looks away from her then - makes a show of checking his bandage, making sure he's still got his knife. He sees he's still got the squirrel he shot earlier, which is a pleasant surprise. Maybe they'll have themselves a snack before they head back.   
  
"Kin find you another stick, sure," Daryl says. What the fuck does he care? It's not worth scaring a little kid. "Ain't no problem."  
  
"I - just I kind of hurt my ankle? When I was - but it's not that bad, I promise!" She sounds panicked now. What? Does she think Daryl's going to leave her behind, now that he's found her?   
  
He looks over at her, but not at her face. Daryl's not one for eye contact at the best of times, and he thinks this girl probably don't like it much either. He looks at her ankle. Sure enough, it seems like she's favoring the left one - he can't tell if it's bruised or if it's just smeared with dirt.   
  
"I can keep up, I won't slow you down," the girl says quickly. "I just - if I use a stick I can -"  
  
"Yeah," Daryl says, and the girl clams up immediately. It'd be funny if it didn't make him feel like shit. What does she see, when she looks at him? Another Ed? Merle? Maybe his own father, Will Dixon back from the grave to fuck up another generation of kids. He forces himself not to scowl, which is harder than he thought. A scowl is Daryl's second most used expression. "We'll find you a crutch."  
  
"I'm sorry," the girl says.   
  
"Why? You do it on purpose?" Daryl asks. But it's too rough and he's treated to the girl flinching again.   
  
"I - no. When - I did what Rick said, I kept the sun over my shoulder, but I saw a walker in the bushes and I tripped and -"   
  
And lost her way.  
  
"Must hopped pretty quick, outrun a walker on a bum ankle."  
  
Sophia blushes. "I - climbed a tree."  
  
Great. A tree. Probably where they lost her trail. Daryl feels suddenly furious at himself and stupid as shit. He couldn't figure out that a kid might have climbed a tree to get out of danger?  
  
"It - I mean I think I hurt it when I tripped? My ankle? But then when I was coming down from the tree I kinda -" The girl shrugs once, almost embarrassed. "But I can still walk, I promise."  
  
"A'right," Daryl says. Some of the anger he's feeling at himself must leak out on his words because Sophia is tense again. "When'd you last eat?"  
  
Sophia shrugs again, uncomfortably. "Um - I think yesterday." Her face suddenly looks even thinner, and Daryl wonders what he looked like when he came home from being lost in the woods. Ten years old and gone for nine days, did he look this hungry? Probably. Daryl was always hungry back then. Nine days in the woods just amplified it. "I found a hickory tree? But the nuts were really hard to crack."  
  
Daryl's mostly impressed that this girl found a hickory tree. "Well, let's have a little grub an' head on out. Getcha home for some of your ma's cookin'." The girls face lights up at that and Daryl feels guilty for getting her hopes up. "Ain't nothin' special, y'know. Jus' squirrel." Daryl feels stupid again. Why didn't he think about this, carry more shit for Sophia? He'd known she'd be hungry when he found her. He'd had some protein bars and shit in the saddlebags on the horse, but he should have kept that shit on him.   
  
"I don't mind squirrel," Sophia says. "I had some back at the quarry. Remember?" Daryl doesn't but he guesses he did gives some squirrels to the others to cook up. "It tastes okay."  
  
High praise. "Y'd probably eat that bow right now if I told you it was edible," Daryl says, and is rewarded with a small smile.   
  
"Maybe."   
  
But her smile fades when Daryl pulls out his knife and starts to gut the thing in front of her. She looks a little queasy, like she wishes Daryl would do it somewhere else, but she doesn't say anything. Daryl's not sure if that's manners or just her being scared again.   
  
"Ain't pretty," Daryl says suddenly as he pulls the entrails out of the critter. Sophia's staring at him, and maybe if he talks she'll just listen and not feel like she has to look. "But you gotta do it. Else you'll get sick. Ain't nothin' they don't do to whatever you buy at the grocery store. Jus' that you're doin' it with your own hands." His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He's never had to explain this shit before.   
  
"Bought," Sophia says, and Daryl squints at her. She still looks pale, but no longer like she's about to be immediately sick.   
  
"Huh?"  
  
"Bought. At the grocery store."   
  
"Yeah," Daryl says. Sure. Whatever. Bought.   
  
He finishes up and stops squinting at Sophia in order to scowl at the squirrel. If it were just him, he'd probably just eat what he could raw and use that little boost to get him out of there. But Sophia looks like she'd puke if he gave her the still warm heart of a squirrel, and he doesn't want to deal with a puking kid on top of a lame one. He's got his lighter in his pocket but it got doused in water. Merle had a trick where you held the lighter upside down to drain it and clicked the wheel and shit, but Daryl thinks that's probably bullshit. He looks at Sophia.   
  
"Y'think you can get some tinder?" The girls face looks blank. "You know, uh - shit that'll light easy. For the fire. Dry bark or leaves or stuff. Cloth." The yarn hair of her doll would probably catch pretty good, but he doesn't mention that. He got stabbed in the gut for that fucking doll, he's not going to snatch the thing bald. Daryl looks at her ankle. "If you can't -"  
  
"I can," Sophia says quickly. "I can, I'll - I'll be right back."  
  
"You don't gotta go far," Daryl says. Like going far is even a possibility, down here on the creek bed. Which reminds him.   
  
Sophia stays within eyeshot the whole time - constantly looking over her shoulder like she thinks Daryl will disappear on her. There's not much at the creek bottom and the girl is moving slow - Daryl finds himself chewing his own lip when he sees how bad her walking is. If he were well, he'd just sling her over his back - his bow's probably heavier than her. But as it is, it's going to take them a lot longer than a couple hours to get back to the farm. They might not make it before dark, and no way he's hauling through the woods with a wounded twelve year old girl once the sun goes down.   
  
Maybe he could wrap it, he thinks as Sophia returns with a scant handful of twigs, leaves, and broken wood. The fire he builds isn't anything special, but it'll do. He chars the carcass as he looks up at the sky - they're already losing daylight. Daryl wonders if it's better to find somewhere to hole up for the night, start out fresh tomorrow morning. In which case he's pretty stupid to be sitting down here making snacks at the bottom of a creek bed when they should be finding shelter. But Daryl doesn't think he can get out of the creek bed without something to give him energy. Well, whatever. He's probably doing things in some kind of ass stupid way, but it's the only way he can think to do them.   
  
"A'right," he says finally. Sophia's looking greedily at the squirrel, and Daryl chops off a leg for himself and hands the rest of it to her. "Dig in."  
  
The girl frowns at the squirrel and Daryl wonders if she's really that spoiled, that after four days of nothing she's turning her nose up at a decently cooked squirrel.   
  
"I - we could split it. Fifty-fifty. That's fair."  
  
Huh? "Had your mama's eggs for breakfast," Daryl grunts. Kid's been living on a handful of hickory nuts and she's trying to give him food? "That's your share."  
  
He feels bad for mentioning her ma - but Sophia still doesn't bite anything but that fucking lip. She's gonna draw blood by the time they get back to Hershel's. "But -"  
  
"Girl, what'd I say? It's yours. Eat it." He sounds rougher than he means to and he winces a little, inwardly. He's so fucking bad at this.  
  
Sophia jumps and shoves the squirrel in her mouth - more out of fear, Daryl thinks, then out of hunger. Although hunger kicks in pretty quick and the squirrel disappears rapidly. Daryl gnaws on his own serving - he doesn't need much, he did eat the heart and stuff while Sophia was off gathering fire stuff. When she wasn't looking so she didn't puke everywhere.  
  
"A'right," Daryl says as Sophia dips her fingers into the creek to clean off. Daryl'd licked his own fingers clean, which he'd vaguely regretted when he tasted the tang of his own blood on them. "Lemme see that ankle."  
  
Sophia seems hesitant. "I - it's okay, really," she says. "I - with the stick I'm much faster. I promise, I'll - "  
  
"Jus' wanna see it," Daryl mutters. "Might be able to help."   
  
Sophia holds out her foot then, extremely reluctantly. Daryl manipulates it gentle in his hands, winces again when he hears Sophia hiss/   
  
"Sorry," Daryl says. He tugs at the laces a little. It's been long enough since it happened that he's not overly concerned that taking off the shoe will increase the swelling, and this way he can wrap it, maybe even let her soak her foot in the creek while he figures out the best way out.   
  
Which reminds him. "How'd you get down here, anyway?" He peels the sock off her foot and hisses himself - it's a nasty sprain. Her foot is different shades of purple, yellow, and a sickly green, and it's fat in the ankle part. "Wiggle your toes."  
  
Sophia does, and Daryl breathes a sigh of relief. He doesn't know what the fuck he'd do if she had a broken foot or something. "I - I saw you from over there." She points behind him, the part of the creek that's water going over slick stone. "I - I mostly slid down."  
  
Well. That explains how she moved so damn fast. Daryl looks at the rocks considering. Yeah, they're steep, but the way up he was planning, clawing and climbing through the dirt and using tree branches for handholds, ain't going to work with Sophia in tow. If they don't plan on going back tonight anyway, the rocky side of the creek bed will actually take them up near that house he'd found the other day. Well, nearer. His stomach rumbles at the memory of the jars in the cupboard.   
  
"You know that house up that way?" Daryl asks, and he's slightly disheartened when Sophia stares at him blankly. Well. There goes that theory. "There's a house yonder, maybe an hours walk with us all slow an' shit." Hm, maybe he should try to swear less in front of the kid. "We leave now, we can get there by dark. Have a roof over our heads tonight, start off for the farm tomorrow."  
  
Sophia bites her lip. He's not sure if it's with pain - he's started wrapping her ankle with the last remnant of his shirt sleeve, and while he's careful not to go too tight, he's sure it stings some. "I - can't we go back to the farm now? I promise it doesn't hurt that bad. I can be fast -"  
  
"Ain't you," Daryl says roughly, even though he's pretty sure by himself he'd hit the farm before sunset, even like he is. "I'm movin' slow too. An' I only got one arrow. We gotta move smart."   
  
Sophia nods slowly. "But - you promise? In the morning, we'll go?"  
  
"Hell, we'll leave with the sunrise." Daryl finishes wrapping her ankle. It doesn't look like much, a raggedy plaid bandage, but it's something. "How's that? Too tight?"  
  
"N-ooo," Sophia says slowly, wiggling her foot around.   
  
"Well, it ain't a cast or nothin', still gotta be careful," Daryl says brusquely. "Imma find you a stick an' then we'll head out. You could soak that foot a little, if you want." The cold water certainly won't hurt it.   
  
Daryl wishes he had a waterbottle or a canteen or something. He's cautious enough about beaver fever that he doesn't just slurp the water down, but he splashes his face, his hair, in attempt to cool himself, to wake up. If he had a canteen, he could bring the water with them, try and boil it or something when they hit the house. But they don't have that so no use wishing. His water rode off with Nelly.   
  
Maybe that's the answer. Maybe he should try and find Nelly. Sophia ain't large, the horse could carry both of them back. Daryl allows himself a moment of imagination - Nelly, her reins tangled harmlessly in a tree right at the top of the hill, him riding back to camp like a fucking hero with Sophia - but he quashes it pretty quick. He's in no condition to run down a horse, especially not a jumpy fuck like that. With his luck, the thing would probably toss Daryl and Sophia and break both their necks. Not worth it. The plan is a solid one - find shelter, more food, make a fresh start in the morning.   
  
He finds a fallen tree limb with a decent number of branches and drags it back to her. She's got her foot in the water, obediently, and she looks incredibly relieved to see him.   
  
"Stand up," Daryl grunts. The girl complies quickly, almost too quickly - Sophia almost overturns into the water as her balance wavers. Daryl doesn't say anything about it. Just holds the tree limb up next to her, measures it. He cuts it down decently fast with his knife, and the branch he's got even has a Y shaped crook at the top she can slot into her armpit.   
  
"You ready?" Daryl asks, as Sophia tests the crutch. She is faster with it - marginally. Daryl's own injuries are throbbing now, insistent, to the beat of his heart, but he pushes it away. He'll deal with that later. Merle's got a bottle of Oxy in the bike's saddlebags, he'll have one when he gets back. A fucking reward.   
  
"A'right," Daryl says. "Let's go."  
  
It's a good plan. A roof, food. A fresh start in the morning.   
  
And if it wasn't Sophia, who'd been camping out there? Well. Hopefully, whoever it is is long gone.   
  
If not - he'll deal with it. If he has to.   
  
Right now, they've just got to get out of the ravine. Everything else, Daryl will figure out.   
  
So he sets off, over to the slippery rocks, the limping scrape of Sophia's sneakers following just behind.


	3. The House in the Woods

They get to the house just as the sun starts to set. It makes it look like something out of a storybook, Daryl thinks - the sky all pink behind it, silhouetting it against the sky. Sophia's face is soft when she sees it, almost dreamy. Like it's something literally out of a dream.   
  
Which doesn't mean anything when Daryl tells her to hide in the bushes while he checks inside.

"I'll come getcha when it's clear," he tells her, and her mouth is set into a mulish line. In a way he's pleased with that development - at least she isn't acting scared of him - but he's also sort of annoyed. There were signs of somebody in that house, and Sophia's not going anywhere that's not safe.  
  
"I - but what if something comes when you're gone, and you have the bow?" Sophia asks. She's picking at the peeling bark of her crutch.   
  
She's got a point. He unsheathes his knife and hands it to her. Sophia stares at it like he just handed her a live snake.   
  
"I - " She looks at the knife doubtfully and tries to hand it back. "I'll be careful. I'll be real quiet, and I'll just -"  
  
Yeah. Maybe leaving her the knife doesn't make sense. He takes the knife back and hands her the bow.   
  
This makes her look scared. "What if you go in without the bow and there's a walker in there and you get bit?"  
  
"I get 'em with the knife." He's done it before.   
  
"What if it's a person and they have a gun and you can't get close enough to -"  
  
"We ain't got a choice," Daryl snaps, and he grits his teeth as Sophia flinches. Fuck. "We just gotta do the thing that'll keep us both safe. That means me in there and you out here. I'll come back for you when it's clear." He turns around again. He's not going to give her a chance to argue again. He'll be in and out quick and then it won't matter if she was scared for five minutes.  
  
"I don't want to be alone again," Sophia says in a tiny voice. It's a voice Daryl knows well. It's the voice you use when there's something you need to say but you're scared if someone else hears it, things will just get worse. It's him asking his old man to drive him to school when he missed the bus, it's him telling Merle don't you think you've had enough, it's him hovering in the doorway of his mother's room asking if she's all right. He could pretend not to hear her. That's the whole point of the voice. But that feels wrong, makes him scowl just thinking about it. Which probably doesn't make Sophia less scared.   
  
They compromise. Sophia waits outside the door, holding the bow and covering the entrance. Daryl leaves the front door open and he clears the place room by room. Everything looks the same as it was when he was last here - Daryl wishes he'd done something obvious when he came before, balanced shit over doorframes or left a dusting of flour by the doorway, so that he'd know if the place had been disturbed. He doesn't notice anything different, but his head is throbbing and the light is fading. He could miss something.   
  
Daryl finally lets Sophia in - he'd pretended not to notice how she'd crept further into the house with every room he'd cleared.   
  
"Should we - go upstairs?" Sophia asks as Daryl finishes up there and heads back to the main floor. Sophia's leaning against the wall, awkwardly keeping her weight off of her injured ankle while still holding the bow against her shoulder like he showed her, finger next to but not on the trigger.   
  
"Why?"  
  
"I - I don't know." Sophia quiets, but Daryl waits her out. She had a reason for saying it. "Just like - like climbing a tree. Walkers don't climb."  
  
"They climb stairs," Daryl points out. "Ain't secure like a ladder or a tree or whatever."  
  
Sophia bites her lip. "Oh."  
  
"But s'good thought," Daryl hears himself saying, and he almost feels himself blushing. What's he doing? The kid doesn't care what he has to say about this shit.   
  
"There's some blankets up there and stuff, I'll bring 'em down," Daryl adds. "We don' wanna stay anywhere we ain't got multiple ways out."  
  
Multiple ways out can also mean multiple ways in. But ultimately Daryl decides on one of the corner rooms - windows on both walls, plus the door into the room. He grabs the blankets from upstairs and from the cupboard downstairs, the lone weird pillow. There's a room with a fireplace which would keep them warmer, but he's not sure how he feels about the smoke, and it's still summer - with the blankets, they should be warm enough. He makes a little nest in the corner without any windows - figures the kid would prefer to sleep with her back to the wall. He would have when he was her age.   
  
Hell, Daryl'd rather sleep like that now.   
  
"C'mon," he says. Sophia's been hovering behind him, bracing between the wall and the crutch like she's scared if she sits he'll take off without her. "Gotta figure out a trip line."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"Uh - " Does she really not know what that is? They'd had one at the quarry camp, hadn't they? "Jus' like - a warnin' system. Case anything tries to sneak up on us."   
  
There's gardening twine in one of the drawers and empty cans littering the floor of the kitchen. Mostly booze. Couple of soup cans with the tops still attached, half peeled off, which is lucky - Daryl's not sure how he'd string them all together if the pop top wasn't there. He sends Sophia over to the cupboard. "Look for any shit in there we can use or eat."   
  
Sophia's eyes are wide and she's emptying the cupboard as quick as she can. It's not much - a jar of tomato sauce, another tin of sardines, a thing of olives. Couple cans, probably soup or beans or something. There's some unlabeled jars that look like self-canned preserves or some shit, some that look like jam, but Daryl looks at them warily. Could be botulism or whatever the fuck in there, or they could be deliberately fucked with. Best not to risk them.   
  
There's a bottle of booze tucked into a dusty back corner. Bourbon. He pretends he doesn't see it, that he doesn't notice Sophia's eyes darting nervously between him and the bottle.   
  
"M'gonna go hang this," Daryl mumbles. "Bring everythin' we can eat back to the room." He pauses, looks at her. "If you - uh - gotta, y'know - go?" Suddenly his mind is blanking on child appropriate euphemisms for the bathroom. Somehow he thinks telling the girl not to shit in the toilet isn't going to go over great. "Don't - uh -" There's a blush creeping up the side of his neck which makes him scowl. What is he, some fifth grader, blushing about basic bodily functions? "There's a toilet back there but it won't flush," he finally settles on. "Just, uh - so you know." 

Sophia is blushing too, and she nods rapidly, not looking at him. Saving both of them, Daryl escapes outside with the trip line.   
  
He starts to feel progressively worse as he goes. His side is like fire every time he breathes or bends over and his head feels woozy and light. There's something starting to creep around his vision, a kind of fuzziness that makes him feel like he's spinning. Fuck. He was going to stay up, keep watch, but as soon as he sets the line he thinks he'll go prop up against some wall and pass out. He wishes he could have some of the bourbon - help dull the pain, at least. But that's a stupid idea. Just dehydrate him more, and he can't afford to be out of it if something happens.   
  
Plus the girl'd probably shit her pants, and he wouldn't blame her.   
  
At the very least though, maybe he can use it to clean out his wounds, try and stave off infection until he can get back to Merle's stash of antibiotics. So Daryl's slightly pissed when he gets back and it's gone.   
  
"Where's that bottle at?" Daryl asks, and he scowls when the girl flinches at him. Shit. "I ain't gonna - I jus' wanna use it to clean my shit out." He looks at Sophia consideringly. She didn't seem to have any open wounds, but it's possible. "Yours too. You got any cuts?"  
  
Sophia shakes her head. She looks scared all of a sudden, more scared than when she thought he was going to drink the booze. "I - no."  
  
Daryl waits. It's like the girl is trying to make herself say something, but she can't. She swallows, her fingers twisting in the yarn hair of the doll, and when she does speak it's so quiet Daryl can't hardly hear her. 

"I - I poured it down the toilet."   
  
Daryl's not sure what his face is doing - probably looking kind of pissed, although not at her. Was a fucking smart move on her part. She's a kid, she didn't know there'd be any use for it other than getting shit faced.   
  
"I'm sorry," Sophia says in a rush. Her voice sounds wobbly and he can see her pulling into herself, trying to make herself disappear. "I - I didn't know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to -"  
  
"S'fine," Daryl says, but he's not sure how convincing he sounds. He feels sick all of a sudden, really sick, and he's not sure if it's because of the pain radiating out of his side or the way she's looking at him. Like he's about to haul off and whale on her, like he's going to pull out his belt and learn her good. He wonders if she'd done this before to Ed, if Carol had. Can't imagine Ed would react well to losing his supply.  
  
Daryl'd done something similar once - he'd been eight and dumped all his pop's pills and powder down the toilet. He hadn't been sure at the time why he was doing it - maybe Daryl was hoping that when his pop got back from his latest bender, he'd just figure he'd gone through it all himself and have to get sober for a while. Or maybe he was mad - his ma'd been dead for a year at that point and his old man seemed to have totally forgotten she'd existed. Oddly enough, it hadn't been his pop who'd caught him out. It'd been Merle, Merle with a face like curdled milk, who'd smacked him so hard Daryl's head had rebounded off the shitty plastic of the sink.   
  
_"Fuckin' moron - the fuck you do that for, he's gonna skin you alive -"_  
  
Daryl hadn't understood maybe, how pissed his pop would be. Hadn't understood that even then Merle'd already been dipping into their pop's shit. But that hadn't been the whole reason Merle'd been mad. He never knew what Merle had done, but he'd gone out and come back four hours later with a handful of replacements, pitifully small compared to what Daryl had flushed.   
  
_"He asks, you tell him nothin'. You don't know shit. Fucker musta used it hisself an' forgot. Y'hear me, boy?"_  
  
Daryl'd nodded, his head still stinging.   
  
_"You pull that shit again, s'on you. I ain't coverin' for you no more. Fuck, fuckin' eight years old, too old to be pullin' shit like this -"_  
  
That part had been all talk. Merle'd covered for him that night, when their pop came home. He'd covered for Daryl for another two years. Until he left.   
  
Then Daryl was on his own.  
  
He shakes his head to clear it, which only sets it off pounding again. Hell. His voice, when he speaks, is gravelly and rough. "Whatever. S'fine. Ain't like it were real antiseptic or whatever anyway. Prob'ly wouldna done nothin'." He wishes he could smile or something, tell the girl it was fine, but his whole head feels like it's about to explode. He settles for a shrug, which tugs at the wound on his side. He can't win.   
  
"I'm really really sorry, I -"  
  
"Said it's fine," Daryl snaps, and the girl goes totally still and silent. Fuck. He looks instead at the jars of food, neatly lined up.   
  
"Leave them unlabeled ones," he mumbles. Daryl forces himself to get up. Tries to ignore how the girl flinches back at his movement. "Dunno what the fuck's in them." Daryl can hear his voice slurring a little bit. Shit. He's got to get some rest. He lets himself drop into the corner near one of the windows - conveniently on the other side of the room for the girl. He looks outside, pointedly avoids her. "None a that shit needs cookin' so y'can just dig in. Go slow - y'eat too much too fast, you'll get sick." He remembers walking into the kitchen of their shitty trailer after nine days in the woods, the only thing there bread and peanut butter. Being so hungry he almost didn't even make it into a sandwich. The feeling afterwards, throwing up half chewed bread and globs of peanut butter. "Save some for breakfast."  
  
"What about you?"  
  
"Ain't hungry." Daryl isn't - the squirrel earlier, the eggs at breakfast, it's enough to hold him over until they get back to Hershel's. He's gone longer without food and anyway, his head is whirling and his stomach's roiling and he thinks if he tries to eat anything he'd just puke it up anyway. Not worth wasting it when the girl could eat it. "M'gonna jus' - rest a while." His eyes are already closing as he says it, and he forces them back open. Gets the crossbow into his lap, still loaded. "You wake me, you hear anything." He can see the trip line from the window. Anything hits it, he'll have a clear shot. Of this side of the house, at least. "An' wake me if you're gonna go to sleep so I can take watch."  
  
His eyes are closing again.   
  
"Are - are you okay?" he hears Sophia ask him, but her voice sounds small and far away. He can't tell if it's because he's fading out or if it's just because she's little and scared.   
  
"Gonna be fine," Daryl mumbles. He leans his head against the wall, the solidness of it feeling comforting, almost cool against his too tender head. "Just gotta rest."  
  
And after that, he doesn't hear anymore.

* * *

When Daryl wakes up, it's like he's drowning. Like he was trapped underwater and waking up tosses him back to shore. He takes a couple of huge, sucking breaths. He's got his bow in his hands, which calms him down some - fuck, he's worse than that girl, she's got a rag doll and he's got a weapon with a hundred sixty draw weight.   
  
The girl.   
  
The room is darker than it was when he fell asleep. He can barely make her out, huddled up near the bed he'd made her in the opposite corner. With the moonlight from the window, he can see the barest outline of her, arms wrapped around her bony little knees, head down.   
  
Fuck. She must've fallen asleep before waking him. He can't quite bring himself to be mad at her for not waking him - hell, he's not sure if he would have wakened. Daryl'd felt almost dead when he'd dropped off. But it wasn't good policy to leave them without somebody keeping watch.   
  
Daryl's feeling better now - not good, but better. He wonders what woke him up - he must have heard something, to jolt him out of sleep like that, but when he listens now it's quiet. The trip line looks undisturbed around the house. It's not until he hears a sniffle, quiet enough that he almost wonders if he's imagining it.   
  
Oh. She's crying. Probably in her sleep. Daryl wonders if he should wake her - if she's having bad dreams. He'd been having bad dreams, he thinks. Something about his dad, about - it doesn't matter though. They'd slipped away into the dark when he woke up. Maybe he should wake her too. But he'd probably scare the shit out of her. Daryl shifts a little, unsure of the best move. That's when he notices the blanket.   
  
She'd clearly been nervous to get too close. Which was smart, him clutching that fucking crossbow. It looks like she'd thrown the blanket out over his lower legs, his boots poking out from the edge of it. There's something else there, too. Daryl leans over, knocks it.   
  
It's a dented can of soup.   
  
Shit. He feels bad now. He scared that girl silly and she still saved food for him and tried to fucking tuck him in. Daryl shifts a little more. He should wake her. He shouldn't let her twist herself into knots in her dreams. Plus, he probably should make her sleep in a real bed. Well, Daryl thinks, looking at the nest of blankets at rags he'd made earlier - the closest thing they had to a bed.  
  
"Sophia," he says softly, and the sniffling stops. She's rigid all of a sudden, and Daryl tries to keep his voice soft and low, like talking to a spooked horse. "Girl, wake up."  
  
"I'm not asleep," Sophia says quickly, and then she's looking up at him. Her face shines a little in the moonlight, smudged tear tracks through the layer of grime on her cheeks. "You said not to sleep unless I woke you."  
  
Daryl feels a stab of guilt. Maybe he didn't phrase that so good. "Din't mean - you gotta sleep," Daryl says, still trying to keep his voice calm. It's easier in the dark, somehow. Like he doesn't feel like she's scared just by looking at him. "Jus' meant somebody's gotta keep watch while you do."  
  
"You should sleep," Sophia says. "You're sick."  
  
"Naw," Daryl replies. "Just had me a good nap. Your turn." He jerks his chin towards the blankets then realizes she probably can't see him. "G'wan an' lay down."   
  
Sophia hesitates. "I thought that was your bed."  
  
Man, he's really messing this up. Daryl struggles to keep his voice level and calm as he responds. "Naw. Made it for you." She doesn't move. "C'mon girl. Bed ain't gonna bite."  
  
Sophia creeps forward then and perches almost delicately on the blankets. Her little shoulders look stiff, like she's waiting for him to change his mind. When Daryl doesn't say anything, he sees her silhouette relax some.   
  
"Ain't like what your mama's got waitin' for you back at the farm," Daryl says awkwardly. "She been uh. Workin' real hard."  
  
There's another sniff then and Daryl feels stupid. Shit. Shouldn't talk about her ma, maybe. Probably just upset her. Daryl doesn't know what upsets kids. 

"Y'don't - gotta cry," Daryl says awkwardly. "I'll getcha back soon."   
  
"I'm not crying about that."  
  
"A'right." Then what the fuck is she crying about?  
  
"I just - I didn't think anybody would find me."  
  
A pang then. It'd taken Daryl four days to find her, and in the end he probably would have missed her again if he hadn't gotten thrown by that stupid horse.  
  
"Had a lotta people lookin'," Daryl mumbles. "Sides, you din't need nobody to find you."  
  
He hears a sniffle again. Shit. Maybe she thinks he means that he didn't think they should have wasted their time looking.   
  
"Jus' mean - found yourself, din't you?" Daryl explains. He's chewing on the skin around his thumbnail, grateful for the darkness. What a fucking pair, the girl with her doll and Daryl practically sucking his fucking thumb. "Hell, din't think nobody'd find me. All fucked up in that creekbed." Shit. He shouldn't say fuck. "Mean, all hurt and shit." Fuck.   
  
"But you knew how to get out. You're brave." Something curls in Daryl's stomach, and it takes a minute to realize it's a good feeling.   
  
"Naw. Jus' know how to handle myself. That ain't brave."  
  
"I don't know anything." She sounds so convinced, sad about it, and Daryl hates Ed with a fucking passion in that moment. Fuck that guy, that his kid's so sure she can't do shit.   
  
"Knew how to climb a tree," Daryl points out. "Found food. Water." He thinks about his own time lost in the woods. "Didja wipe your ass with poison oak?"  
  
Sophia seems incredibly still all of a sudden, and Daryl wonders if she's blushing.   
  
"Jus' - I got lost, when I was younger'n you. Nine days in the woods, eatin' berries an' shit. An' I'd been camping before, y'know? So I shoulda known better. But used poison oak for toilet paper. You ever touched that?"  
  
When Sophia speaks again, there's the hint of a giggle in her voice, which makes Daryl feel better about the fact that he's telling a twelve year old girl about a rash on his ass. "No. But I know it's bad."  
  
"Itches like hell," Daryl agrees. "Surprised I ever stopped itchin'. Could barely sit still for a week." His teachers at school had been pissed already that he'd missed a full week. They hadn't been happy when he showed up and couldn't stop squirming.   
  
"Ew," Sophia says. Daryl can imagine her nose wrinkling, but there's still that sound in her voice, like a little bubble of laughter.   
  
"Yeah, ew," Daryl says, a smile on his own face.   
  
"How'd they find you?" Sophia asks, and Daryl feels his smile fade a little. He shrugs, even though it tugs at his side and she probably can't see it in the dark.   
  
"Ain't nobody found me. Came on the house again after a while, s'all." He wonders if he should tell her no one was looking, but that feels weird. Like he's asking some traumatized kid to feel sorry for him. And Daryl'd been fine. He was still here, wasn't he? "Hadta find myself. Jus' like you."  
  
There's a moment of silence, and another sniffle. Shit. Fucked that up again.   
  
"Sorry," Daryl mumbles. "I ain't - good with kids."  
  
"No, no, I'm not - I just -" She sniffles again and when she speaks her voice is wobbly. "I don't know, I just was really scared. That's all."  
  
"Well, yeah. S'fuckin' scary," Daryl says. He wishes he were someone else - Lori maybe, or Rick. Rick'd know what to do. Probably give the kid a hug and tell her it's all going to be okay, do some dad shit that Daryl can't even imagine. But the idea of hugging the kid makes Daryl nervous and he thinks she's more comfortable with him on the other side of the room anyway. "Weren't no geeks runnin' around when I was a kid. Mean - there were bears, I guess, but they had better things to do than mess with me."  
  
"You saw a bear?"  
  
"Couple of 'em," Daryl said. "Were up in a tree. I went off the other way." That was actually what had eventually gotten him going the way that led him home. Thank god for bears.   
  
"I've never seen a bear."  
  
"Good," Daryl says, and he's rewarded with a snotty huff of breath that maybe could be a laugh. "Bet that doll a yours was better company than a bear anyway."  
  
"She's - it's Eliza's doll."   
  
The fuck is Eliza?  
  
"I mean - I'm twelve, I'm too old for dolls," Sophia says, and she sounds so impossibly young as she says it. "I'm not a baby. But Eliza's only eight, so."  
  
Daryl hums. A picture is coming to mind - one of them other kids, Morales' squeakers. He'd never heard their names. Their mama had kept them far away from him and Merle, with good reason, after Merle called one of them a bean taquito. There was a little girl, younger than Sophia, he guesses. Eliza.  
  
"When they left she gave it to me, so." Daryl thinks he can almost hear Sophia shrug in the dark. "I don't know. I just - kept it."   
  
She sounds a little embarrassed, and Daryl wants to tell her not to be. Wants to say he knows how it feels, the comfort of something solid in your hands, something to cling to. He'd had a bear until he was four, a bear Merle was constantly hiding on the top of the fridge or burying in the trashcan. Til their pops had gotten mad one day at the racket Daryl was causing, whining at Merle to give the bear back, and ripped the things head off. _"Shit boy, what are you, some kinda faggot, cryin' over some goddamn doll?"  
  
_ He'd sucked his thumb for too long, a habit that Merle had tried desperately to break him of, dipping his thumb in tabasco or soap, smacking his hand whenever it inched near his mouth. _"Pa sees you he's gonna make you sorry,_ " Merle'd warned him, and eventually Pa had seen and Daryl had been sorry. It'd taken six weeks of his father putting out his cigarette in the pad of Daryl's finger until he'd broken the habit for good. The pad there is still a little too smooth, the whorls and swirls of his fingerprint obscured by scar tissue. He'd been sorrier to lose the one thing he had to hold onto, the solid thing that could make him feel safe even when he was hiding under the bed hearing his pops and his ma get into it.   
  
Daryl doesn't say any of that though. He doesn't know how to say it without it being weird.   
  
"S'nice doll," Daryl mumbles instead, and he squints at Sophia. "Y'should sleep, girl. Got a lotta walking ahead of us tomorrow."  
  
Sophia's shoulders are stiff with that but she lays down. Daryl looks at her consideringly.   
  
"Y'want me to - tuck you in, or whatever?" He wants to punch himself the second he's said it. What'll he do if she says yes?  
  
"No thank you," her tiny voice replies. Southern mamas and their manners.   
  
"A'right then." Daryl feels awkward again, weird, and he looks out the window. At the grass, already wet with dew, the moonlight glinting off of the battered cans of the trip line. The darkness of the trees beyond. It's a six mile hike back to the farm from here - six miles with her bum ankle and him all torn to shit. He wonders if he could convince her to wait here for him, if Daryl could hike back and get another horse or a vehicle or something to come get her. But Sophia probably wouldn't consent to getting separated again, and this house isn't a sure thing - somebody'd been here recently enough that they could still be coming back. He's not sure if there's even roads to get to this place, at least not roads that Hershel might know off the top of his head. This place was even more in the middle of bumfuck nowhere than his dad's house.   
  
Later, when the sky is lightening enough for the black outside to fade to a murky gray, Daryl wonders if he jinxed them. 

* * *

" - you sure this is where they ran to?"  
  
Fuck. Daryl's over and shaking Sophia before his body has time to protest. He's glad he thought to put a hand over her mouth because her whole body stiffens as he shakes her, and he can feel her mouth opening to cry out under his hand.   
  
"Shh," he whispers - it's hardly a whisper, more an exhale. "We got company."  
  
She stills immediately.   
  
Daryl can see them now - three guys. And he's only got one arrow. Fuck. They're coming up on the house from the southeast - if they bail out of the window,   
  
"I mean I ain't sure but it's the only place up around here they could go - "  
  
"Fuck man, you lost us that pussy an' I'm gonna take it out of your ass -"  
  
"Like to see you try!" 

A moment of laughter. Daryl pulls Sophia out of the room and over to the closet where they'd found the canned goods. "In here," Daryl hisses, but Sophia's hands claw at him, dig into his shirt, jarring his wounds.   
  
"Don't leave!" she says, an almost hysterical note in her voice. "Please, please -"  
  
"Ain't goin' nowhere," he says, pulling her hands off of him. "Jus' can't fit in there with you. G'wan."  
  
"Please -"  
  
"Stay in here til I come getcha," Daryl says. "I'll be back. Promise."  
  
Sophia's eyes are staring at him, wide and pleading, her lip wobbling out of control.  
  
"Randall, check the front of the house, make sure they don't slip out. Ladies!" The last word is booming, loud - these guys don't care if whoever's in here hears them coming, which is their mistake. "Ladies, you left before we had a chance to kiss goodbye!" The guys voice is oily, with some northern accent like from a TV show. Daryl shuts the cupboard door on Sophia and shoves some shit in front of it - the two chairs, some trash - camouflage her some. There's a china cabinet on the opposite wall - if Daryl thought he could move it without passing out, he would.  
  
"Shit man, maybe they ain't here. Coulda cut out towards the highway, 85 ain't far -"  
  
"Might as well check. Someone set that alarm out there. Them bitches seemed too dumb for that, but you never know. Max an' me'll take inside. Randall, you keep watch out here."  
  
"What? I found the place for you, y'all wouldn't've even found it if not for -"  
  
"Shut up, kid. You're lucky we even let you come, after -"

Splitting up. That's good. Daryl goes up to the top of the stairs, tucks himself away bow drawn and ready.   
  
They think they're fucking with him? Mess with the girl? They've got another thing coming. 


	4. Fight

Daryl'd jammed a chair up under the door handle before they went to bed, but that doesn't stop him from seeing the knob turning. Fuck. He should have blocked the front doors better. But he'd been thinking flight, not fight. Not with him all fucked up and a kid in tow. He didn't want to curtail any of their ways out. But now they've got no choice, so Daryl readies himself to do what he has to.   
  
"Someone's in there. Locked the door." A knocking at the door. "Little pigs! Little pigs! Let us in!"  
  
"Fuck man. We could just bust that window there, go in that way -"  
  
There are windows in the room Sophia's hiding in. Daryl doesn't want to risk it.   
  
"Whatcha want?" Daryl hollers, and he hears the men outside stop.

"Shit. That don't sound like Brenda."  
  
"Could be the other one - she was sounding pretty hoarse after I -"  
  
"Man, don't be a dumbass -"  
  
"Hey man, we're looking for some friends of ours," the main guy yells back. "Couple a broads. You seen 'em?"  
  
"Ain't seen nobody," Daryl yells back. "Y'better go."  
  
A pause. "Hey man, you'll forgive us if we don't just take your word for it."  
  
There's a slam at the door and Daryl can see the chair jump under the door knob. It's not going to hold for much longer.   
  
Daryl knows what he should do. Knows what Merle would do. First guy in, pick him off with the bow. Make it two against one. Hide upstairs with the knife, take out another. Maybe one of them has a gun, something he can use on the third. It's not much of a plan but it's something. And he should do it. He's got Sophia to protect, and these guys sound like bad dudes. The way they talk about the women they're looking for makes his skin crawl.  
  
But Daryl's never killed anyone before.   
  
The door handle jumps again. "Look man - we don't want any trouble." The main guy, the smooth talker. "We're just looking for our girls. You let us in, let us take a look - if they ain't there, we'll go. Promise."  
  
Do they honestly think Daryl's that stupid?  
  
"You on your own, man?"  
  
"Yeah," Daryl yells. Then he thinks, stupid. He shouldn't have told them that. Should have said there were more guys, puffed himself up. But he's not saying anything that gives even the slightest hint that Sophia exists. "S'how I like it."  
  
"We get that, man. Look - let us in? We'll do a search and get outta your hair. No problem."  
  
"Where you from, man?" One of the others yells out. "You local?"  
  
Daryl doesn't say anything.   
  
"Hey, we've got a local here. Randall, he's from Senoia. You from that way?"  
  
"Don't tell him where I'm from," he can hear one of them hissing. Randall, he guesses. "What if he -"  
  
"What's he gonna do? Where you from, man? Senoia?"  
  
"Naw," Daryl says. "Passin' through."

"Us too." There's a pause. "We're gonna come in man. All right? Just take a look around. It'd be better if you'd open up for us."   
  
Daryl doesn't move.   
  
"Bust it, Max."   
  
Max is the first one in. He's older than Daryl thought, wearing a backwards baseball hat and jean shorts. He's panting like a stuck pig from knocking the door in.   
  
Shoot, Daryl tells himself. Shoot. Get him in the eye, or the throat. Easier than killing a walker, you can hit him lots of places and he'll go down. Do it. Fire.   
  
But his finger doesn't move. He's never killed anybody. He's hurt people sure, he's won his share of fights (and lost more than his share), and he's been muscle for Merle a few times on deals. But he's never just shot a guy in cold blood.   
  
"You get upstairs," the second guy says. He's the one in charge. He could almost look handsome, Daryl thinks, if it wasn't for his eyes, which look mean and hungry. "I'll look down here."   
  
"Yeah, Greg. Got it."   
  
This is it. He should aim for Greg first. Greg's the threat, and Greg's the one whose prowling around on the first floor. But he sees the flash of gun at Max's belt and it makes Daryl wait. If Max comes upstairs, Daryl can take him out quick, grab the gun. Then maybe -   
  
"Where you at, man? Come on out. We shoot the shit."  
  
He's delayed too long. The choice gets made for him. Greg's ducked into a room - the front room where they'd been sleeping, not the one in the closet where Sophia is hiding. Max is huffing his way up the stairs - really? This guy is that out of shape? How'd he outrun walkers in that condition?   
  
"Man, them girls aren't here. Shoulda gone east instead, bet they're running for Whitewater or something -"  
  
Daryl's quick when he wants to be. He doesn't let himself think when the arrow pierces the guys throat. There isn't time for more than a gurgle, wide brown eyes staring at Daryl, fingers clawing at the fletching protruding from his neck. The guy might not be dead right away, but it'll come soon enough. Daryl doesn't wait. Draws his knife over the guys throat - it feels disturbingly like field dressing a deer, the same sort of action. Then the guy doesn't do anything.   
  
Daryl makes his way down the stairs careful, drawing back the bow again, putting his blood sticky arrow in place. He slings the bow over his back though and wields Max's gun. It's flashy but it's loaded. It'll do the trick. He can hear Greg kicking shit in the bed area.   
  
"Come on man. We don't mean no harm. You tired of being on your own? We got a camp, you know. Good guys. Friendly guys. We take newcomers, if they can earn their keep. Randall out there, he's earning his keep for us right now." Then all of a sudden the noises stop.   
  
"Max!" Greg calls, and Daryl freezes on the steps. "Ain't our girls here. But some girl is."  
  
Daryl doesn't breathe.   
  
"Hey, sweetie. You lose somethin'?"  
  
Daryl starts down the stairs as fast as he can without alerting Greg to his presence. His heart is pounding in his ears, his side. It's okay. She's not in there. She's smart, she'll stay in the closet til he gets her.   
  
"Think your dolly misses you. Why don't you come out and get her?"  
  
Fuck.   
  
"Hey sweetheart, it's okay. I don't bite. Hard." Greg laughs at his own joke. "That your dad here with you?"  
  
Daryl's almost to the door frame.   
  
"We got a camp, you know. Room for you and your dad. Or maybe we'll get you a new daddy. How's that sound? Want me to be your new daddy?"  
  
Greg's head explodes before he even knows Daryl's there. The gunshot roars in Daryl's ears and Daryl staggers - it's all catching up with him now, his side and his head and the fact he just killed two people in cold fucking blood. He steps over Greg's slumped body, makes for the front - the third one, the kid, the one from Senoia -  
  
"Shit -"  
  
The kid is running, scrambling north through the branches, tripping over himself. Daryl watches for a second. He could hit him, he thinks, if his head wasn't swimming and he didn't think he was going to puke. But the kid's running fast and he's running the opposite way from Hershel's farm and two people's enough for one day, ain't it?   
  
"Don't be a pussy, little brother," he hears, and Merle is there, leaning against the doorjamb. He's lighting a cigarette, both hands intact. Daryl watches the flame play between his fingers, the smoke curl outwards. "You do what you gotta. But hell," Merle says, blowing a perfect smoke ring - something Merle had spent most of his life trying to master. "Best get that girl outta here before them geeks hear that gunshot and come chomping. You done rung the dinner bell, boy."

* * *

When Daryl opens the cupboard door, Sophia's clutching the empty bourbon bottle in sweaty hands and her breath is unsteady. When she sees Daryl, she throws herself into his arms, clinging to him. He grunts as she smacks into him and staggers back.   
  
"Sorry, sorry," Sophia is saying, and Daryl doesn't know what to do with this shit. "I heard the gun and I thought you might have -"  
  
"M'fine," Daryl says gruffly. "But s'time to go." She doesn't let him go right away and he twitches - he doesn't want to shove her or nothing, but there isn't time for this and it isn't like he's so great at hugs and shit even at the best of times. Sophia seems to understand the twitch though. She backs off.   
  
Daryl holds out the doll to her. There was a little blood on the doll's head, but he thinks maybe Sophia won't notice with all the other dirt ground into it. "Ready?"  
  
"My - my stick's in the other room."  
  
Yeah. Guess he hadn't really given her time to grab that. Daryl chews on his lip.   
  
"You - wait here, a'right? I'll get it." Sophia shifts and he looks at her, hard. "I mean it. Don' follow me."  
  
She's scared enough of him as it is, she doesn't have to see what he's done.  
  
"Okay," she mumbles. She's working the yarn of the doll's hair in between her fingers. "I - I'll wait."  
  
Daryl's quick when he goes it the room. He scoops up her crutch, the can of soup she'd left him, scours the ground for anything else. The jar of olives is still half full, so he pockets that too.   
  
He throws a blanket over Greg's body and thinks about doing the same for Max upstairs, but doesn't. He's wrecked from all that. Daryl's not sure he could make it up and down the stairs another time, which doesn't bode well for him getting himself and the girl back to Hershel's farm in one piece. He grabs Greg's gun and shoves it in his waistband. There's a knife too, a buck knife with a folding blade, and he takes that too. It's small enough for Sophia to handle.   
  
He hands her the knife and the stick and she looks at him, worry sketched around her eyes, teeth pulling at her lip.   
  
"Are you - you don't look so good."  
  
He doesn't feel so good either but it doesn't matter. He isn't dying. Just got to keep moving.   
  
"Ain't a good idea to stay here," Daryl says. "Were gonna leave now anyway. We leave now, might be at the farm for lunch."  
  
Dinner, he thinks dizzily. Dinner if they're lucky, with him all fucked up like this.   
  
Sophia nods and bites her lip. He hands her the knife. She stares at it.   
  
"I - I don't know how to -"  
  
"S'good to have a knife," Daryl says to her. "Handy. Just take it."   
  
She doesn't say anything when he hands her Greg's gun.   
  
He thought carefully about it. Greg's gun is lighter than Max's, and it has more ammo. Sophia stares at it with scared eyes and doesn't reach out. Like she's scared it's going to bite her or something.   
  
"Don' use it unless you gotta," Daryl says. His arm trembles a little with the effort of holding the gun out to her, and that makes him mad. At himself, at how fucking weak he is, at how the hell he's gonna get this girl home in one piece, and a little bit at the girl. Can't she see he needs her help? "Sound'll draw walkers, so it's only for a real emergency."  
  
"I - I'm not supposed to play with guns," Sophia whispers.  
  
"Yeah, well, y'ain't gonna play with it. You're gonna hold onto it and give it back to me at the farm," Daryl says. "Safety's here. Trigger's here. Don't point at nothin' you don't want dead."  
  
"M-my dad told me -"  
  
"Well, he ain't here!" Daryl snaps, and immediately regrets it. Sophia flinches back, hands on her stick like if he comes at her she's bop him one. Which makes him feel a little. Good girl. Anyone comes near her, she should bop him one. He takes a breath. "Look. Ain't - s'just in case. Y'can't draw the bow yourself or I'd give you that." Daryl doesn't mention she'll probably be better at aiming the gun, that the gun gives her more chances than the bow. "But if we get separated, ain't no good me havin' everythin' and you havin' nothin'."  
  
This only makes her more panicked.   
  
"I - I don't want to get separated," Sophia says, her voice quaking.   
  
"Me neither," Daryl says frankly. "Just gotta plan for worst case. That's all."   
  
He waits her out for a long minute. He's getting impatient - they've got to go. Who knows where the camp was that these fucks were talking about, how long it'll take Randall to sound the alarm. He should have killed that kid. Stupid.   
  
Daryl's about to shove the gun back into his waistband - fuck it - when Sophia's hand reaches forward and takes it, quick and light, brushing against his hand like a butterfly.   
  
"Sorry," Sophia says miserably. "Sorry, I didn't - I'll carry it. Sorry."   
  
Fuck. Daryl's too tired for this. He's bad at kids anyway, probably worse at girl kids than boy kids because at least he was a boy kid. Girls are totally alien so he'd probably be fucking this up anyway, even if he weren't leaking blood with a pounding head and shaking limbs and the word murderer slamming around his skull.   
  
"S'okay," he says roughly. He shoulder his bow, checks his gun. "We jus' gotta go. That's all."  
  
And they do.   
  
As they pass the front, Daryl sees the flowers again. Cherokee roses.   
  
"Hold up," he says. Sophia stops, looks at him.   
  
Daryl pulls three flowers off - mindful of the prickers, careful not to get stuck. He strips the last of the thorns off as he gets back to Sophia.   
  
"Here," he says gruffly. Sophia stares at the flowers like they're not quite real. "Bring these back for your mama."  
  
Sophia takes them. Rubs one of the petals between her fingers.   
  
"They're pretty," Sophia offers tentatively. Daryl grunts.   
  
"Cherokee roses," he says, and then he's got to save his energy. "C'mon. Let's move. Git those back to your mama 'fore they wilt."


	5. Flight

Their progress through the woods is slow. Sophia moves at a snails pace, hopping along with that stick, and it takes Daryl longer than it should to realize that she's actually holding back for him. He's shuffling along like a fucking walker himself. The bow is heavy and grinding against his back and he can feel his steps getting jerkier, less even. He's not being as observant as he should be - he knows he'd notice if a human was on their trail, or even a walker, but otherwise all his attention goes to staying upright and putting one foot ahead of the other in the right direction.   
  
"Should we - do you want to stop?" Sophia asks hesitantly, maybe two hours in. "We could - eat lunch or -"  
  
"Ain't past ten," Daryl says, pushing against his side. "It'd be breakfast."  
  
"Do you - want breakfast?"  
  
"Naw. Wanna get you home."  
  
They walk for maybe another thirty minutes before she works up the courage to ask again.   
  
"Maybe - maybe we should stop now."  
  
"Girl, we ain't stoppin' -" Daryl starts, but he stumbles over a root, almost falls flat on his face. Like some stupid city slicker. He catches himself on a tree, the rough bark cool under his hands, and that's when Daryl realizes he's probably running a fever. Shit.   
  
"I think we have to," Sophia says in that bad small voice again. "You're - you look bad." She realizes that this isn't maybe a polite thing to say, which Daryl thinks is funny because why on earth would it matter now how polite you are. "I mean - sick. You look, uh. Maybe sick."  
  
"Dunno where their camp was," Daryl mumbles. His lips feel super dry all of a sudden. He should have drank that water yesterday, even if it'd meant he'd shit himself silly. He's so thirsty. "Dunno how long we got, 'fore someone comes lookin'."  
  
Sophia is quiet, and he wonders if she hadn't realized earlier. What he'd done. That those guys were dead. That he'd killed them and that there were probably more of them.   
  
"What do I do?" Sophia asks suddenly. She sounds scared and lost but also frustrated. Maybe angry. Well, good. She should be angry. Angry's better fuel than sad or scared, burns hotter and more powerful than lost. Angry'll get both of them home.   
  
It's got to.   
  
"I don't know what to - I think you're really sick, Mr. Daryl."  
  
"Don' call me that," Daryl croaks, and the girl flinches. "They'll patch me up at the farm. Don' worry. Jus' gotta get there."   
  
"But -"  
  
"Hey," Daryl says, and Sophia looks at him. He tries to think of what to say, of how to explain it to her. What'll make her feel better, be less scared.   
  
"I ain't dyin'," he says firmly. "So c'mon. Let's get you home."  
  
They keep going.

* * *

Maybe the others are out looking for them. 

This thought appears as it becomes clearer and clearer that they aren't going to make the farm before sundown. Daryl's moving just too damn slow. The girl too - she's not holding back anymore, trying to match his pace. She's slower than he is, hours of hobbling around with that dumb excuse for a crutch catching up with her. Her every move is stilted, more drag than step, and Daryl's not much better, although by midday he feels less flushed and thirsty. They stop at noon, near a creek that's barely more than a trickle, and he builds a fire - "Dry wood," Daryl explains as he coaxes the thing to life, the emptied soup can nestled in the flames, "Means less smoke, means no one can track us with it." The can is so shallow that it boils quick, and both of them drink two cans worth, even though it tastes muddy and brackish and faintly like cream of celery soup.   
  
They're close to the farm now. Maybe another two miles. Going at the rate they're at now and assuming they make camp for the night, they should be there before noon tomorrow, easy. But only two miles out means they're almost back on Hershel's turf. Rick could be out looking for them, Glenn's horse girl could ride up on them, hell even Shane might find them, two miles out. 

Unless no one's looking. Unless they figured he just lit out, stole Hershel's horse and ran off like some nineteenth century horse thief. Like he'd leave Merle's bike behind. Or maybe they haven't even noticed Daryl's missing. He keeps to himself well enough. Rick's the only one who checks in with him regular or whatever, and that's just about the status of the search.   
  
Carol'd probably notice he hadn't come back - at the very least, because she watches him like a hawk when he comes back into camp, waiting for good news. But the others don't listen to Carol really. They act like because she's torn up about her kid she's useless, and frankly they'd acted like she was useless for a long time.   
  
Daryl'd seen how Ed treated her, back at the quarry. Merle had told him to keep his nose out.   
  
_"Bitches like that don't leave 'less they want to,_ " Merle had said. _"Remember Ma?"_  
  
 _"Ma din't leave,"_ Daryl had grumbled. _"She died."_  
  
 _"Exactly, baby brother,"_ Merle had said, his teeth bared in his shit eating grin even if something around his eyes was sad. _"Exactly."_  
  
Merle hadn't mentioned it, but it'd made Daryl remember too, when he was little - before his ma had died, so he was probably six or seven - and his ma's sister had come to visit for a couple weeks. Aunt Elaine, he remembered suddenly. She'd come up from Macon to stay and his dad had gotten into a screaming match with his ma that had ended with her sobbing on the kitchen floor, her hand over her swollen cheek and booze everywhere. Aunt Elaine had yelled at his pop, had said _"I know what you are!"_ and _"You touch her or those boys again, you'll regret it!"_  
  
Which had led to the worst summer of Daryl's life, as his dad proceeded to tar each and every one of them bloody and then invite Aunt Elaine over for dinner.   
  
_"Whatcha think?"_ he'd ask her, leering, more than a little drunk. _"I regrettin' it yet?"_  
  
She'd never come for another visit. And Ma had died a couple months later.

Daryl'd learned an important lesson then, about outsiders messing in family business. It could only end bad for the family.   
  
But Daryl wasn't a cop. Cops sucked, but they weren't meant to just sit by and watch some woman get beat on and stay out of it because it wasn't there business. The worst thing about cops was they made everything their business. So why, at the quarry, had Rick and Shane just looked the other way? 

Because they'd figured Carol wasn't important enough to have to tussle with Ed. Because she didn't matter. 

So even if Carol did notice Daryl was missing, he wasn't sold on the idea that the others would take her very seriously. Especially not about some redneck scum like him.   
  
No. No point in waiting around for rescue. They had to get themselves back. And they were close.   
  
Just a little further. 

* * *

"Are we almost there?"  
  
Sophia was cringing even as she said it, like she expected him to wallop her for daring to ask. But Daryl's more impressed that she'd waited so long - it's been hours since they stopped at the creek, and he'd expected complaining to come pretty soon after they started walking again.   
  
"More'n halfway," he said, and the look on Sophia's face is hard to read. Nervousness, anxiety. Excitement.   
  
"Will we get there tonight?"  
  
Daryl squints at the sky and sighs. Shakes his head. "Tomorrow."  
  
Sophia bites her lip. He expects a little whining. He'd said tomorrow yesterday, and the girl probably wanted to be home five days ago. But she just nods and looks around. At the trees, looming overhead, the underbrush wild and tangled around the forest floor.   
  
"Are - where are we going to sleep?"   
  
It's a good question. Daryl frowns, suddenly.   
  
"Where'd you sleep?" he asks, realizing he'd gotten hardly any information about how the girl had lasted as long as she did. "When you was alone?"  
  
Sophia shrugged, uncomfortably. "Um - in trees?"  
  
Daryl stares at her.   
  
"What?" he asks slowly. He gets that climbing trees was how she'd shaken the walkers off. Hell, she'd found that hickory tree, sure. But sleeping in a tree - "What are you, some kinda squirrel? Where'd you think of somethin' like that?"  
  
"Um. It was in a book?" Sophia says softly, her voice quirking up at the end almost like a question. He can't tell if it's the good kinda soft, like when he almost made her giggle last night, or the bad kind, like she's scared of him.   
  
"A book?"   
  
"Yeah. Um. The Hunger Games?"  
  
Daryl looks at her. Sophia is looking back, and all of a sudden something shifts in her face. "You - don't you know about The Hunger Games?"  
  
Hunger Games feels like what they're in now - some game where they're starving, the walkers are hungry, and whoever eats first wins. He shakes his head.   
  
"Naw," Daryl grunts. "Ain't much of a reader."  
  
"Katniss sleeps in a tree. She's got a sleeping bag and she belts it to the branches so that the Careers don't see her when they're hunting and so she doesn't fall out if she falls asleep."   
  
Huh. Some of that sentence makes sense.   
  
"And Rue is good in trees too. That's her friend. She can walk from tree to tree, really like a squirrel. I tried to do it but my ankle hurt too bad, so I stopped."  
  
Shit. Girl was hopping tree to tree, no wonder Daryl'd lost her trail. He was surprised she hadn't broken her neck. 

"You ain't got a belt," Daryl points out, and Sophia nods.   
  
"Yeah. Mostly I tried to use my shirt - like I'd poke a branch through the neck hole or the sleeves so if I moved it'd wake me up before I fell out. I mean - I didn't like really sleep super good or anything, but. I just figured, since walkers can't climb, that it'd be safer..." Sophia trails off. "It was stupid."  
  
"Why would it be stupid? You're alive, ain't you?"  
  
"I guess," Sophia mumbles.   
  
A minute of silence later, her quietest voice comes from behind him.   
  
"My dad hates those books."  
  
Daryl looks at her. She's staring at the ground, her feet.  
  
"Why?" Daryl's dad hadn't cared about books. He'd holler if he saw Daryl lazing around doing homework when he could be doing something useful, but he never gave a shit if the stuff in the books was violent or pornographic or whatever. As an adult, Daryl wonders back at how literate his dad actually was. Like he was pretty sure Will Dixon could read, but he wonders if his dad actually ever sat down and read a whole book or whatever.

"The Hunger Games. He says they're violent. It's a bad example."  
  
Like Ed cared about setting a bad example. Probably didn't want Sophia getting ideas about fighting back. Fucker.  
  
"Just - That's not for girls. That stuff. It's why I'm not allowed to touch his gun. It's not for girls, stuff like that."  
  
Daryl figures Ed had plenty of reasons not to want Sophia to touch his gun. Or Carol.

He wonders if Sophia realizes she's speaking in present tense. Wonders if it's just a habit, or if it hasn't sunk in yet, that Ed is gone. That he's not going to say shit like that to her again, that she can read anything she wants. Wonders if it'd be a relief or if she misses him. When his old man had died, he'd felt nothing, not even relief. There'd been a sort of emptiness where he thought grief was meant to be, just a blank void in his chest. It'd been hard to believe it was real.   
  
"Ain't that person in your book a girl, one tied herself to the tree?"  
  
Sophia just nods.   
  
"Well," Daryl says, like that proves his point. He's not sure if it does, but Sophia gives him a small smile anyway.   
  
"That's what my mom said."  
  
"Your ma's smart," Daryl grunts.   
  
"Yeah," Sophia says, her tone wistful. "She is."  
  
They walk in silence for another bit, nothing but the crunch of dirt and dead leaves under their feet. 

* * *

Daryl sets up camp and asks Sophia, only half joking, if she's sure she doesn't want to sleep in a tree.   
  
Sophia shrugs, the ghost of a smile around her face. "I - I guess I'd probably sleep better, um. On the ground."  
  
"A'right. If you're sure." The lean-to Daryl threw together isn't his best work, but it'll keep her sheltered and dry while he keeps watch. Maybe he'll wake her when he gets tired, or maybe he'll just push through till morning, although his side twinges at the thought, like it's warning him to take his injury serious. He's never been good at that. But the girl deserves some rest. Daryl can sleep when they're safe. 

They eat the olives for dinner - all in all, it's not the worst day of food Daryl's ever had, half a can of lukewarm soup for lunch, handful of olives for dinner. He wishes he had the energy to bag something real, some more squirrels or maybe even a possum or something bigger. But his energy has been towards moving them forward, and they'll be all right. Just one more night. Sophia'd never had olives before and it actually gets a laugh out of him, the puckering of her mouth at the brininess. Sophia stills for a second - he wonders if she's ever heard a grown man laugh who wasn't laughing at her. But then she gives him a small, shy smile, tentative and fleeting, and it gives Daryl such a boost of energy he wonders if he should strike camp and push them through to Hershel's in the dark. Even though that'd be the stupidest idea in the world. 

It gets dark quick in the woods. One minute the light is there and the next it's gone, leaving them in a gritty grayness that fades into black as Daryl layers the top of the lean-to with more branches. He's done it so often that the lack of light doesn't affect him too much - ain't like the thing needs to be a work of art or whatever. Just gotta keep her dry and warm.   
  
"I - um -" Sophia is mumbling and Daryl tries not to react while she does. He hates it when people ask him to speak up, be louder, say it again, and he's a grown ass man. Little girl's probably twice as sick of it. He spreads another layer leaves on the floor of a lean-to, the best bed he can make. Hell, she uses that doll for a pillow and it might actually be kinda comfortable. "I could - go find tinder again? For the fire?"  
  
"Naw," Daryl grunts. She should rest that foot, is what she should do. "Don't need a fire. You'll be warm enough in here."  
  
"Oh." She's chewing on her lip again, fingers picking at the doll in her lap.   
  
"Normally we would," Daryl adds. "If we were jus' camping. Can scare off animals, y'know. Most times, they don't wanna find humans anymore'n humans wanna find them. We're dangerous."   
  
"So - shouldn't we - make one, then? To keep -" Sophia scrunches her nose up, shakes her head. "I mean - sorry."  
  
"Naw, s'good question," Daryl mutters. He adds another layer of leaves to the bed. "Animals'd keep clear, but the light draws walkers in. Maybe the heat too, I dunno." Daryl doesn't mention potential other pursuers, people from that camp Randall'd probably run back to. If she's forgotten about it, he doesn't need to remind her, make her scared of more shit. "Plus, can kinda blind you, you know."  
  
Sophia looks at him, worried. "Blind you?"  
  
"Naw, not - jus' mean, your eyes adjust to light. Right? Like - when you're inside with the lights on and you go out an' it's dark, you can't see so good." There's words for this that are better, science shit. Hell, if he were Rick or Shane or Glenn, that motor mouth fuck, he'd be able to explain anything. As it is, he's tripping over words, scrambling for examples. Kid probably thinks he's a fucking idiot.   
  
But she's nodding, slowly. "Um - like when you're playing outside and it's sunny and you go inside and it's like all black and green and it's hard to see?"  
  
Smart kid. "Yeah. S'like - if we had a fire, I'd only be able to see the stuff the fire lit up, an' if I had to look away, I'd be pretty bad. But if I ain't never had the light, then my eyes'll adjust or whatever, to the dark. Be able to see better."  
  
He can't tell if that makes any sense, but Sophia's nodding again. "Um. Mr - sorry."  
  
Daryl tries to hold in a sigh. "What?"

"I, um. I, I have to -"

Oh. They'd had this problem twice already - Sophia, stammering and blushing, her body weirdly rigid, fumbling around telling Daryl she's got to take a piss. Daryl's not sure why the girl is so embarrassed about it - just means everything is working normal, doesn't it?   
  
"Gotta hit the head?"  
  
Sophia nods, biting her lip.   
  
"Well. We should go a little further out," Daryl says. It'd been different earlier - she'd just hung a back a little, ducked behind a tree, and they'd kept walking. But now, stopped for the night, Daryl doesn't want the smell of shit or piss to draw animals to them, especially with no fire. Daryl wishes she'd figured out she had to go earlier - he'd have dug a latrine or something. "C'mon."  
  
Sophia doesn't move. She's staring at him with a weird, watchful look.   
  
"I can go myself."  
  
"Girl, s'dark," Daryl says. "Don't want you wanderin' off." The girl flinches at that, and Daryl feels bad. He didn't mean to make her feel bad for getting lost. "C'mon. I'll stand watch."  
  
"My - my mom says I'm not ever supposed to -" Sophia's shoulders are pulling inward, making her smaller, and suddenly something in Daryl feels sick and squirming. Fuck. Is she scared of him? That he'll do something while she -   
  
"Ain't gonna look," Daryl says, and his voice sounds angry even to his ears, so he's not surprised when the girl makes herself even smaller. He's not mad at her. He's not even mad at Carol - whatever shit she'd told Sophia, it was good advice. He's angry that the advice was probably necessary, whatever shit Carol'd given her about to be careful about men, about being vulnerable, about getting cornered with your pants down and nowhere to run.  
  
Hell. Daryl knows better than anyone the shit people do when they think they can get away with it. But he'd had to learn it the hard way. His ma hadn't given him any pointers.   
  
"I - I don't have to go that bad," Sophia says, her voice very small. "I'm okay."  
  
"C'mon." Daryl's pulling himself up then, his whole body protesting. He leans against a tree, jerks his chin without looking at the girl. "I'll listen out for you from here. Jus' make sure nothin' creeps up on you. You hear somethin', you holler, right?"   
  
Sophia bites her lip. "I - I can -"  
  
"Girl, git on," Daryl says roughly. "Don't want you pissin' yourself here. Draw the bears. Ain't gonna try nothin'. Jus' don't think you can hold a gun an' pee at the same time." Although maybe a girl could do that.   
  
He's half expecting her to cringe herself into nothing, to pull herself so small that she disappears. At the very least to dart off like a rabbit, scared shitless of him. He's bad with kids. He shouldn't tell her there's shit out there waiting to creep up on her, that bears were coming, shouldn't have made it sound like she's some baby gonna piss herself at the first move. But she doesn't. Her chin stuck out in a way he'd call stubborn anywhere else, she's up, going by him in a blur of blonde hair and ragged tee shirt, lopsided with her injured ankle. 

Daryl listens as hard as he can, the rustling of leaves and of small animals, mice maybe, the distant hoot of an owl - tries not to think how fucking stupid he'll feel if he gets the girl this far and she gets her shoulder chomped while she takes a piss. Tries not to think too of how fucking scared she must be, out here alone in the woods, walkers and god knows who else on their trail, stuck with him, all cussing and killing, rough edges and tattoos and scars. Probably wishes it'd been anyone else to find her. Probably wouldn't have been scared of Rick like that, or Shane. Not good guys like that. But he reminds her of her daddy, probably, harsh words and violence and danger. Fuck. He's biting at the cuticle around his thumb, feeling the skin pull and tear under his teeth, tasting blood. Fuck. He's fucking this up. 

A twig snaps and he almost aims the bow into the darkness before he realizes it's Sophia coming back. She's quiet, light footed - could probably be a good hunter. A good tracker, too - she's observant. Daryl's almost afraid to speak to her. He doesn't look at her anymore as she creeps back into camp, settles down outside the lean-to.   
  
He says nothing until it becomes clear she's not going to move without a push. "Better get some sleep," Daryl says, his voice gravelly. He looks at his hands instead, the spot of blood dotting this edge of his thumb. He rubs it off on the edge of his jeans, has a distant thought of how stupid he is, ripping open holes in himself and wiping them off into dirt when he's already in such bad shape. He leans himself against the tree.   
  
"Yes sir," Sophia says, hardly more than a whisper, and Daryl feels his mouth pull and his gut clench.   
  
"Ain't no sir," he grunts, and he doesn't have to look at her to tell the flinch. He tries to remember her face earlier, tasting the olives, the shy smile when they'd talked about that book. Before it got dark and she got scared. She's not wrong to be scared. Daryl remembers what can happen in the dark, the way that things that felt manageable in the day could morph and twist when you couldn't fix eyes on it. "Get some rest. We're startin' early tomorrow."  
  
A rustle of leaves as the girl crawls into the lean-to is her only response. 


	6. Dreams and Nightmares

It's quiet in the woods at night and that's how Daryl likes it. The sky gets darker, the stars peek through the branches, and he counts the time until morning, each minute closer to getting back to the farm. He tries to picture Carol's face, the moment when she realizes it's over, it's all okay. But it feels weird to think about so Daryl tries to think about nothing at all.

Daryl goes into a sort of state that isn't asleep or awake - something he remembers from childhood, hunting in blinds with his dad. Daryl hated it - hated being outside but stuck in one spot, hated the close proximity to his father, they way that the enclosure made him feel half dumb without tracks to follow. His dad wouldn't drink when they went out tracking - he'd had that much sense. But in the enclosure he'd bring whatever he felt like and drink the whole day and get pissed when he aimed at a deer and missed. On a good day, it'd only be a six pack, and he'd crack one open for Daryl. On a bad day, a jar of his own moonshine, the smell of it clogging Daryl's head and burning his eyes with what he knew was coming.   
  
Back then, Daryl'd zone out. That's what his dad called it, smacking him in the back of the head and telling him to quit dreaming, but Daryl never thought that was fair. He wasn't daydreaming - he wasn't thinking at all. He just went blank, his brain moving slow, his ears taking in information but not properly listening. It was easier to wait like that, zoned out, breathing still and even, hoping that if he stayed still enough a deer would stumble over their path and the day could be over, that his old man would forget he was there. Daryl had done it a couple of times at home, too - when he was really little, hiding under the couch listening to Merle or his ma get it, or when he was older, when Merle was gone and his ma was dead, his dad unbuckling his belt and riding that sound until he was far away.   
  
Daryl's zoning out - just crouched against the tree, listening, watching, the weight of the crossbow in his hands, trying not to think - when he hears the girl crying.   
  
It's different than the night before. Then, all he'd really heard was the odd sniffle or two, and if he hadn't seen the tear tracks down Sophia's face, he could have guessed she just had a cold or something. This isn't like that. It's not even like real crying - it's a sort of strangled whimper that doesn't cut out, burrowing under Daryl's skin and drilling through his ears to his brain so he can't zone out anymore.   
  
He doesn't know what to do. She's asleep, she must be - she's too quiet to make this much noise willingly. He wonders what she's dreaming about to make her cry like that, and he decides he doesn't want to know. With a sick feeling in his stomach, he wonders if it's him.   
  
He should wake her. She's not happy, he can hear that much, and he remembers that feeling, being stuck in a nightmare that you can't get out of, the fear clawing the back of his throat, the panic. (He remembers it better than he should - Merle'd ragged the shit out of him, that Daryl still had nightmares at his age.) She's not getting real rest that way anyway. He could help her, wake her, stop her from crying.   
  
Or he could just make it worse.   
  
Daryl's biting at the skin around his thumb again as he listens. She sounds like a wounded animal, a cat with their tail stuck in a door, a dog after a kick. It's driving him crazy, the sound, but what if he woke her up and it just made her cry harder? He can't imagine himself touching her, not after that shit earlier. He remembers waking her up when Greg and Mark had snuck up on them, the frantic way her arms had clawed at him, the look in her eyes. He can't do it.   
  
But she sounds scared and it just drills deeper and deeper into his head until he can't take it anymore.   
  
Daryl doesn't move. There's debris on the ground around him - snapped twigs and clods of dirt, little pebbles. He aims careful - he doesn't want to hurt her. But he starts tossing them onto the slanted leaf roof of the lean-to, gently. Making the structure move slightly, shaking the leaves where it hits with a low rustle.   
  
It doesn't take long until the noise stops, which Daryl figures means she woke up. He tries to zone out again - he's tired suddenly, exhausted, and he just wants to hand the girl over to her ma and go into his tent and sleep for days. His side has been throbbing so hard that he almost can't remember what it feels like to not have this second, shadow heartbeat in his ribs. It'll be over soon, he thinks, pressing his hand into the wound, which feels hot to the touch. Fuck.   
  
It'll be over soon.   
  
Daryl's surprised when Sophia comes out of the lean-to. He figured once she woke up, she'd just lay there until she fell back asleep. But she crawls out, that doll clutched in one hand, and she sits in front of the lean-to silently, curled into herself, and Daryl doesn't know what to say. The silence feels thick and unnatural between them and Daryl hates it - silence for him has always been safety, he doesn't like the tenseness in it now.   
  
He waits a minute, to see if she'll speak first, but she doesn't. Just stays curled up, miserable looking, hands knotted over her knees and the doll tucked under her chin. If there were a fire, it'd be easier - they could watch it, stare at it. The fire would fill up space. But there's no fire, nothing but the whisper of the woods around them and the dark.   
  
"Can' sleep?" Daryl asks. His voice is rough and he swallows. No need to scare her more by sounding like Freddy fucking Krueger.  
  
He sees her head shake, minutely. Her voice comes out after a moment. "I - I woke up."  
  
Daryl nods. Licks his lips. "Y'wanna - uh - " The last thing he ever wanted to do was talk about nightmares, but maybe girls were different about that stuff. He fills with relief when she shakes her head again, faster, her tangled hair flipping.   
  
"No thank you," she says quickly.   
  
"Right," Daryl says. He looks up at the sky, squints. Maybe two or three hours from sunrise. He craves a cigarette suddenly, hungrily - something to do with his hands, something to keep his mouth busy. Wonders what happened to his - probably trampled half to shit from his plummet down the hillside, or submerged at the bottom of the creek. Not here, not where he needs them.   
  
"Tell me 'bout that book," Daryl says suddenly, and he feels himself flush as Sophia looks at him. Hell. He doesn't know what to do - he's never felt the need to break silence before. But the question is dumb and he feels stupid as he sits there, asking some kid about some fucking book like he doesn't know she was just crying her eyes out in her sleep.  
  
"The - Hunger Games?"  
  
Daryl grunts. "Yeah. Might as well. Got time."   
  
"I - I didn't finish it. It was a library book and when my - I mean. We had to bring it back before I finished."  
  
Fuck Ed. "Well, I ain't read it neither, so. Y'know more of it than me."

It's quiet again and Daryl leans back against the tree. Whatever. It was a stupid question. Kid doesn't have to talk if she doesn't want. Hell, Daryl doesn't have to talk either. They can just wait for sunrise and hike back to the farm and Daryl will never talk to anyone again.  
  
"She uses a bow," Sophia offers. Her voice is quiet but not small anymore - he wonders how he can tell the difference between volume and intention, if he's just bullshitting himself at being able to read her, projecting his own ideas onto her. But at least she's not sitting there like a little ghost. "In the book?"  
  
"That girl? One sleeps in trees?"  
  
"Uh-huh. Katniss."

"Cross bow?" Is this really all he has to talk about? Next he's going to be asking about the draw weight of some made up weapon. Shit.  
  
"No. Or I mean - it doesn't say it's a cross bow. It just said bow. She had to hide it outside the fence because they're not allowed to have weapons?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
That explanation is more complicated - shit about districts and capitals and something about the actual premise for the hunger games which sound like a horror movie he and Merle had watched stoned one late night. He doesn't try and follow, just lets it watch over him. The girl sounds better this way - her voice is stronger, less scared. He can't tell if she cares about what she's saying either, but she cares enough to keep talking, and when she talks some of the tension melts away, makes the silence feel like it used to, like a comforting blanket around him.   
  
"And so she's listening to the rules change and she hears that they're going to let both the people win if they're from the same district and she yells out 'Peeta!' and that's when I had to give it back."  
  
"Shit," Daryl says, frowning. "That's fucked up though. 'Bout the other kid."  
  
"Rue," Sophia says. "I cried."  
  
"Bet they win though," Daryl says. "Katniss and Peter."  
  
"Peeta," Sophia says, which makes him frown again. Isn't that what he said? "I don't know. I hope so."  
  
"Wouldn't write a whole book 'bout a girl then let her die," Daryl points out pragmatically. "Plus, she's got that bow. An' she's a hunter. Survival skills."  
  
Sophia shrugs, something deflating in her, and Daryl swears in his head. Shit. Fucked it up. "Guess so."  
  
"What? Y'think Peter's gonna die 'fore she can find him?" He wants that moment back, listening to a kid tell a story. He'll sound like an idiot if that's what it takes. "Hell, she's a tracker. She'll find him."  
  
"I don't know. Maybe." He sees her little shoulders shrug. "There was going to be a sequel, too. But - "   
  
"Well, if there was a sequel, bet that means they live," Daryl says.   
  
"Guess." She messes with the doll's hair for a second before speaking. "Just - we'll never find out probably, right?" Sophia's looking at him then, her eyes wide in the darkness, and she looks incredibly young all of a sudden. But it clicks what she's saying, and Daryl thinks it again. Smart fucking kid. Hiding out in the middle of the goddamn forest and she's mourning a world of stories and possibilities that have been snatched from her, that she'll never have. It feels wrong all of a sudden, that Daryl had so much time - hell, he'd probably spent as much time trailing Merle, dealing dope, as she'd been alive. She'd had hardly anything, all of it tainted with fucking Ed, and now that world is gone. Bringing her home to her mama won't make it come back.   
  
"Shit girl, ain't like them walkers eat books," Daryl says roughly. "We can find you a copy." Ain't like books are food or meds - he bets the bookstores haven't hardly been touched. He has a vision suddenly of going to a Barnes and Noble and leaving with armfuls of books for her.   
  
Sophia's face brightens at that, like the moon's full shining out of her eyes. "You think?"  
  
"Hell yeah," Daryl says, trying not to think how stupid it is to promise anyone anything. "Hell, Hershel's got daughters, back at that farm. One a them might even have 'em a'ready."   
  
"There's kids there?"  
  
"Naw," Daryl says quickly, not wanting to get her hopes up. "Or I mean, Carl is there. Hershel's daughters are older - teenagers, I guess." Glenn's horse girl was probably older'n that, thinking about it. Or at least Daryl hopes so, the way Glenn's been panting after her. "They got horses though," Daryl offers, like that's a replacement for kids. Which, when Daryl was a kid, it would have been - hell, Daryl'd have traded his whole third grade class for just one horse. His Uncle Jess had worked as a farmhand for a while when he was in elementary school and Daryl'd go and help tend the horses sometimes. It'd been peaceful work, until his pops found out and smacked him for giving away his labor for free. 

"Really?"  
  
"Yeah. Rode one of 'em when I was lookin' for you. Sorry piece a shit," Daryl grumbles, then remembers who he's talking to. "Uh - just mean, she threw me, so. Yeah." Daryl rubs at his head. "You don't gotta tell your mama 'bout all the bad words I said, a'right?" But then that feels weird to say. "Not that - uh - I mean, shouldn't keep secrets from your ma," Daryl fumbles. "Jus' - if she don't ask, you don't gotta tell her 'bout the cussin'."  
  
"Okay," Sophia says. "It's okay though. My dad says bad words." Something shifts in her face. "Or I mean. He did."  
  
Shit. Fucked that up again. "Yeah, well," Daryl says, picking at the scab near his cuticles. "Sorry."  
  
Sophia's quiet for a long time. When she speaks, her voice is low, like it's something she's not even really aware she's saying. "I don't feel bad," she whispers, and Daryl hears her perfectly. "Is that bad?"  
  
"Naw," Daryl says immediately. "Feelin's don't work like that. You just feel shit when you feel it." He remembers the feeling after his dad died, the emptiness that didn't feel like loss because he just didn't care. He wonders if he'll ever care. Daryl misses something - he misses the idea of having a dad he could miss, the idea that one day his dad would get sober. But that wasn't never Will Dixon. Daryl wonders, in that moment, if he'll ever miss him. It makes something move in his chest.   
  
It's quiet again, and Daryl squints at the sky. Almost dawn.   
  
"He was in my dream," Sophia says, almost silently, and Daryl freezes. He's not sure if he was meant to hear it or not. "He was a walker and I was in the woods running and he -"  
  
"Ain't gonna happen," Daryl says firmly. He shouldn't tell her he watched Carol turn her daddy's head to jelly with a pick axe back at the Atlanta camp, so instead he says, "He din't turn. He can't getcha."  
  
Sophia nods slowly, her fingers working over the yarn head of the doll, twisting.   
  
"Dreams suck," Daryl mutters. "But they ain't real." It's what Merle would say to him, after mocking him mercilessly for waking up scared. They'd shared a bed then, Merle off in juvie often enough that their pa had figured it wasn't worth springing for two mattresses. Merle'd smack him with a pillow to wake him, then throw a rough arm around his shoulder, circling Daryl's neck in a way that if it'd been his father would have made him piss himself. _Dreams suck, little brother,_ he'd say, _but it ain't real._ Sometimes he'd press a rough kiss to Daryl's forehead and shove him away again, roll over and go back to sleep.   
  
Daryl suddenly wants Merle more than he wants a cigarette.   
  
"They feel real," Sophia says, and Daryl picks at his cuticles.   
  
"But they ain't," he mumbles. He sees Sophia's shoulders deflate again and it makes him deflate a little too. Fuck. What'd he say wrong now? "Have 'em too, sometimes. But y'always wake up."  
  
Daryl tries not to think about times in his childhood, dreaming about running through the house, looking for his mama, smoke everywhere. About waking up crying and his dad being there, the feeling of being plunged from one nightmare straight into another-  
  
"But you're grown up," Sophia says, watching him careful, like she's trying to tell if he's lying. He shrugs.   
  
"Guess," Daryl mumbles. For a moment he's terrified that she's going to ask him what he dreams about. She'd said hers. Fair was fair. He's not sure he can do it. He's bracing himself for it, but the question doesn't come.   
  
The only thing that comes is the first hint of the sunrise, the darkness lightening just enough.   
  
"C'mon then," Daryl grunts, pulling himself up. He's moving stiff and slow, and he wonders if he should try and nab a stick for himself before they start off. "Don' wanna waste the daylight."  
  
Sophia cracks a smile at him, like she got that it was a joke, which makes something ease inside him. She doesn't seem scared of him anymore. Maybe since the sun came up. Shit looks different in daylight - Daryl knows that.   
  
"Jus' another few hours," Daryl says as Sophia uses her stick to lever herself up. "Won't have no nightmares when you're sleepin' in a real bed." Carol will be there, he wants to say. Carol will chase the dreams off. But presumably Carol'd been there for Sophia her whole life and who knows if that had ever stopped anything. "Y'ready?"  
  
"Yeah," Sophia says. She scrubs at her eyes, her face. There's a determined set to her jaw - she must be hurting something fierce too, but she doesn't say nothing. "Oh, wait." She makes as if she's going to crawl back into the lean-to, and Daryl scoffs.   
  
"Shit, jus' take the roof off. Ain't worth crawlin' in and out again."  
  
Sophia does, tentatively - like she's unwrapping a present. Leans down.   
  
There, in the empty olive jar from dinner, are the three Cherokee roses. Looking a little draggled and worst for wear, limp from being crammed in a pocket all day. But Sophia takes them out like they are precious and perfect, placing them with extreme care into the side pocket of her capris, the heads poking out like they need to breathe.   
  
"Okay," Sophia says, straightening. "I'm ready now."  
  
So is he.   
  
They go.


	7. Home Again, Home Again

Daryl finds strength from some place he didn't know he had. Maybe it's because the woods around him are familiar now - he'd passed through them every time he left on a search and every time he came back, so he knows they're getting close. It makes him move faster, even though he's pretty sure he's running a fever again. He feels sweaty and hot and his side is radiating pain. He tries not to go too fast, but maybe Sophia is sensing something too. Not that she's seen the farm before, but maybe something in her is drawing her to her ma, an invisible thread between the two of them winding tighter and tighter.   
  
Or she's just fucking observant and can tell Daryl's picking up speed. Because she is observant. She's picked up on the fact that he's probably got a fever again. He can feel her eyes watching him as he goes, but he just keeps pushing. They're so fucking close.  
  
"Are you okay?" Sophia asks from one side of him as he tries to maneuver himself over a three rail fence. The fence is half-rotted and splintery, broken up here and there by trees and bramble, but it's the boundary marker for Hershel's property. Which maybe is why he's trying to vault over it like a fucking Olympian even though his side is on fire and his hair is sticking to his forehead with sweat.   
  
"Great," Daryl grunts, and he finally topples over the top of the fence, landing hard on his front on the ground. Luckily it's mostly on his uninjured side, but the impact sends a jarring wave of agony through his whole body and he can't keep back the yelp of pain. Which probably doesn't convince Sophia he's doing fine.   
  
"Daryl!" he hears from behind him, the tiny scrabbling of a lanky twelve year old sliding on her stomach under the fence. She touches his back and he flinches back before he knows what she's doing. He's lucky he doesn't try and deck her, but he's got that much composure. Enough that all he does is hiss and pull away like some stupid fucking cat. Sophia's hand jerks back like she's been burned and Daryl flips over on his own, panting with exertion.   
  
"M'fine," he says, his voice sounding breathy and pained even to his ears. "M'fine."   
  
Sophia is looking at him, uncertain, her hand tangling in her dolls hair again. "Sorry," she says, pulling back further. "I didn't mean to -"  
  
"Ain't you," Daryl says shortly. The pain is fading somewhat, or at least relocating - his side is pulsing now and it feels wet, hopefully from sweat but probably from blood or pus. Shit. "Jus' don't like bein' touched."

Sophia just nods, her face unfathomable. "We're almost there," Daryl adds, pulling himself into a seated position. "The fence marks his property line. I can make it." He feels a moment of embarrassment, that he's convincing a twelve year old that he can walk another hour, like some kid begging to stay up past their bed time.   
  
Sophia nods again, and the look on her face is full of yearning. But she bites her lip. "I - I could go ahead," Sophia offers. "I could go tell them you need help and come back -"  
  
"Ain't splittin' up," Daryl says, hoisting himself from sitting to standing. It's not so bad, especially with the end practically in sight. "Y'said you din't want to get separated."   
  
He'll be damned if he loses her again this close to the finish.   
  
"Sides," he says as he starts walking again, his hand braced against his side, his steps a little uneven. "Wanna see the look on their faces. Carl's gonna shit himself."  
  
He hears her footsteps start up again behind him, feels her draw even with him.   
  
"Ew," she says, her nose wrinkled but her mouth grinning, and Daryl grins back. 

They're almost done. 

* * *

Of course it's not as simple as that, as Daryl and Sophia emerge from the trees into an open, scrubby field. Daryl can see the RV, the line of tents, the house. Sophia looks like she can't believe what she's seeing - not that she hadn't believed him the whole time or whatever, but like it's really unbelievable. She starts to run, or tries to, but she only makes it two steps before she stumbles, almost falls. Daryl catches her elbow, hauls her up quick.  
  
"Careful," he says. "Ain't wanna turn you over all messed up." He squints a little, the late morning sun making it harder to see details than he'd like. But he can see some figures pulling away from the campsite, running towards them. "Sides - they're coming to us."  
  
It's the men, Daryl sees as they run closer. T-Dog, Glenn, Shane, and Rick. They're armed to the teeth, which Daryl appreciates in one sense but in the other thinks is fucking stupid when it's just him and the girl. Any appreciation Daryl felt for their cautiousness evaporates when Rick aims that fucking gun at his head again.   
  
"Fucks wrong with you," Daryl snarls, taking a wobbly step forward as the others all slow down. Rick is staring at him like he doesn't understand what he's seeing. "S'fuckin' kid here man, shit. Been through enough without you pointin' that gun at her."  
  
Daryl sees all of their eyes shift, away from him, to the smaller figure behind him.   
  
"Oh my god," Rick says, and he sounds almost near tears. "Sophia?"  
  
"Where's my mom?" Sophia asks, her voice shaky.   
  
It's the last thing Daryl hears before the gunshot. 

* * *

The only thing he thinks as he falls is that his head hurts worse than he would have thought possible and somehow he's glad for it, because it means whoever is shooting hit him and not Sophia.   
  
He almost falls on top of the girl and he hears her cry out, the others all moving forward at once   
  
"Daryl!" Sophia is saying, over and over, and he can feel her hands on him and he doesn't have the strength to move away. Soon her hands are replaced with others, and he finds himself looking up at Rick, Rick with a halo of light behind his head.   
  
"She hit?" Daryl slurs, and he sees the shape of Rick's head shake, making the sunlight spark and bubble around him.   
  
"She's okay, she's fine, you did it, Daryl, stay with me -"  
  
But Daryl can't stay any longer. He got her home. 

Time to go.

* * *

The next thing he knows he's being carried somewhere, his feet dragging along the ground as two people hoist him up. It pulls at his side and he groans a little, which whoever is holding him seems to take as a good sign.  
  
"Glenn, get Carol, hurry - tell Hershel we need -"  
  
"Daryl? Daryl, wake up. Wake up -" Sophia's voice is high and scared and he stirs somewhat at that. Is she okay? Gotta get her ma. Gotta -  
  
"He's all right honey - get out of the way, now, we need to -"  
  
"Sophia? Sophia!"  
  
"I think he's just grazed but he looks bad - he's covered in blood, what -"  
  
"He's sick, he got - he got hurt bad, he's been - Daryl, wake up -"  
  
"Baby!"   
  
"Mommy -"  
  
He doesn't need to hear anymore after that. He drifts away again. 

* * *

The next time Daryl emerges from unconsciousness is less pleasant. Someone is tugging at his shirt, which hurts like a motherfucker because with all the blood and shit on him it's practically welded to him and when they pull it tugs at scabs. It's a feeling he remembers from childhood, welts leaking onto shirts and getting ripped off, and maybe it's that or maybe it's just the feeling of hands on him, but Daryl can't stop his arms from lashing out. He catches someone across the cheek, hears a grunt.   
  
"Pin him, he's going to hurt himself -"   
  
"More worried 'bout him hurtin' me," someone snarks - Shane, a voice in his head says, and Daryl hears Sophia over all of them.   
  
"Stop! You're hurting him! Mommy, don't let them -"  
  
"It's okay Sophia," someone says, their voice even. The old man. Daryl's brain stutters for a second, the words 'old man' doing something to him, before the name of the guy emerges. Hershel. It's just Hershel. "We're not going to hurt him. But we have to see what's wrong. You said he's hurt, right?"  
  
"He doesn't like people touching him," Sophia says. "Mommy -"  
  
"Do you have to be so rough? Give him a moment, he must be -" That's Carol's voice, and something eases in Daryl with that. Knowing that they're together makes him relax a little, stop fighting so hard. Remember where he is.   
  
"Hey there," Hershel says, and suddenly there's a light shining into his eyes, blinding. Daryl closes them automatically. "You with us?"  
  
"M'fine," Daryl rasps. "Lookit the girl first, she's hurt, her ankle -"  
  
"I'll decide who gets seen when," Hershel says, and Daryl opens his eye again, scowling.   
  
"Fuck you, old man, m'fine I said. She's been runnin' on that ankle for near a week, she -"  
  
"And I'll see to it," Hershel says. "But we've got to see to you first."  
  
Hershel's hands are tugging at his tank top again, and Daryl flinches back from it. Hershel stops for a moment, looking at Daryl calculatingly. He can see how the man's eyes linger, at the ugly, puckered scar on his collarbone, on the thin lines that stretch over his shoulders.   
  
"Let's clear the room," Hershel says in a tone that brooks no argument. "Too many people in here. Won't be able to work. Go on. I'll tell you when we're done."  
  
There's a shuffling, a scraping, many boots leaving the room. A hum and hubbub of voices, spilling out into the hallway. He isn't really listening to them, though, because suddenly Sophia is there, in his line of vision, and she looks more scared than he's seen her, which he guesses is saying something. Carol is there too, right behind her. He can see Carol's hands fixed on Sophia's shoulders, her fingers stroking Sophia's tangled hair, Sophia's hands fisted in Carol's shirt.   
  
"M'a'right," Daryl croaks, and Sophia's lip trembles. "Don' worry."  
  
"Thank you," Carol says suddenly, and when he looks at her her lip is trembling too. She and Sophia look so alike in that moment, a matched set, fitting perfectly into each other. "I'll never be able to -"  
  
"Din't do nothin'," Daryl mumbles. His eyes dart away, look for Hershel, who seems to be arranging medical supplies on a tray with an inordinate amount of interest. "She'll tell you. She did the hard shit."  
  
"You knew you'd find her," Carol says, and Daryl coughs. He doesn't know what to do with this, these eyes, this attention. He figured when he came back Carol'd look at Sophia and nobody else for a while.   
  
"Din't find her," Daryl mutters, eyes looking anywhere else. "She found me."  
  
"That's enough talking for right now," Hershel says, stepping forward. And Daryl never thought he'd be grateful to the old man for rescuing him. "You can see him again when I've patched him up."  
  
"I can't leave," Sophia says, her voice wobbling along with her lower lip. "Not until I know if he's gonna be okay. We said we wouldn't get separated -"  
  
"Honey, Daryl probably wants his privacy," Carol says, which makes Daryl blush like a fifth grader. Privacy. Shit.

"But what if he -"  
  
"You can come visit when he's feeling better," Hershel says, and it's too much talking all of a sudden.   
  
"Kid can stay," Daryl barks out, and regrets it almost immediately. He's a fucking mess, not just his injuries, but the scars on his back, his chest. Give the kid nightmares. "If she wants, I mean," Daryl mumbles, eyes closing. "Don't care."  
  
A moment of quiet. "Carol, why don't you two go sit over by the window," Hershel says slowly. "I need to pay attention so you'll have to be very quiet, all right, Sophia?"  
  
Daryl doesn't hear anything so he guesses Sophia is nodding. Daryl has just enough presence of mind to turn himself in the bed so that his back faces away from the Peletiers, although that means that his face is looking towards them. Carol's settled in a rocking chair near the window, Sophia cradled in her lap. She can't stop touching the girl - her hands running over her arms, smoothing her hair, every so often kissing her cheek or the back of her neck. Sophia is like a puddle in her grip, melting into her, but her little face is tense as Hershel unwinds the shitty bandage from his side and cuts his tank top off of him.   
  
Then Hershel is poking at his side and Daryl feels himself starting to drift away. It's a different feeling from falling asleep, but only because he can't imagine falling asleep while he's shirtless in front of some guy who is poking his side which feels like it's been shoved with burning irons while his head throbs wetly around his ears. But Daryl doesn't fight it. Maybe he could, if he tried, but he feels as limp as that doll Sophia's got tucked into the crook of her elbow, and it's not like he wants to watch Carol and Sophia while he gets stitched up anyway.   
  
"Well, now, let's see what we have here," Daryl hears Hershel say.   
  
And then Daryl doesn't hear anything. 

* * *

He's almost tired of waking up. Daryl figures he's probably woken up seven or eight times already today, and it's exhausting every time.   
  
Hershel isn't touching him this time. He vaguely remembers Hershel cleaning his head, his side, the feeling of the needle puncturing his skin as he stitched Daryl up. The room feels still and quiet and for a moment Daryl just lets himself breathe, before he hears a shifting from the seat by the window.   
  
Oh. Carol and Sophia. They're still here.  
  
"You want more to eat? We can get you more," Carol says. He's never heard her like that before. He hadn't really heard her speak much at the quarry, and most of what they'd done at the CDC was lose their shit and Sophia'd been gone since then. She sounds like a blanket, Daryl thinks incoherently. There's a warm weight to her voice that makes Daryl feel sleepy. "There's plenty here."  
  
"M'okay," Sophia says sleepily. Her ma must sound like a blanket to her too.   
  
"Okay. Because I know Hershel said not to eat too much too fast, but you don't have to be hungry. There's crackers or -"  
  
"I'm full, Mama."   
  
"How's the ankle?"   
  
"It hurt worse before," Sophia says. "It's been better since Daryl wrapped it up."  
  
"Well. You're gonna take it easy the next few days. All right?"  
  
Sophia hums, the sound like a contented kitten.   
  
"Beth has some books you might like. Better than what Dale's got in the RV. We can having a Reading Day." Daryl can practically hear the capital letters and wonders, sleepily, if Reading Day is a thing everybody knows about or if it's something only for them two.   
  
"Daryl said we should see if they have The Hunger Games."  
  
He can almost hear Carol raising her eyebrows. "Daryl's read The Hunger Games?"  
  
"No, but I was telling him about it, and I told him how we had to bring it back to the library before we could finish, and he said maybe Hershel's kids have it and even if they don't that maybe we could find it somewhere else, because walkers don't eat books."  
  
"He's right. They don't. Well, we can ask Beth. I don't know if it's quite her thing, but can't hurt to see."  
  
"I think he'd like it. Because he's brave like Katniss. And he hunts and uses the bow and stuff."  
  
There's a soft sound of skin against skin, and he realizes Carol must have kissed her daughter.  
  
"You're brave too," Carol says. "Making it out there for so long."  
  
"I wasn't brave though," Sophia says, her voice quieter. "I was scared the whole time."  
  
"But you didn't quit. That's what makes you brave. You didn't give up."  
  
"You're brave too, Mama."

There's a sniffle from the corner and Daryl feels like he's intruding, even though they're the ones crashing his sick room.   
  
"I missed you so much," Carol says. Her voice is thick with tears, and Daryl feels fixed to the spot. He doesn't know how to let them know he's here, he's awake, this is private shit they're doing. It's not for him. But he stays still, only mostly because he feels awkward about letting them know he's been listening. Part of him though is drinking this all in, the gentle voice, the care. It's like rainwater in a desert, something he wants to soak up quick before the sun comes back and dries everything up. But it's not Daryl's to have. He knows that. It belongs to Carol and Sophia.   
  
"Me too," Sophia says, and he hears her sniffle join her ma's. "I'm sorry. I tried to get back but I -"  
  
"Shh," Carol says. "You didn't do anything wrong."  
  
"I did what Rick said, honest, but then I tripped and I couldn't -"  
  
"You did just right, baby. Everything. You're here, right?"   
  
A little silence.   
  
"We're not going to get split up again," Carol says, her voice suddenly fierce. "I promise. I'll never let that happen again. I'm sorry, sweetheart. I should've -"  
  
"You sent Daryl to find me," Sophia says. "Mommy, don't."  
  
"I love you," Carol says softly, and it's like she just pulled her heart out of her chest and handed it to Sophia, still bloody and beating. "I'll never lose you again. Never."   
  
"I love you too, Mama," Sophia echoes. Then they go quiet again. Daryl can hear a faint creaking from the rocker.   
  
It's like something soothing from a memory, even though he's sure his ma never had a rocker in their house. But the sound of it creaks quiet in his head, lulling him until he's almost asleep.


	8. Good Night

Daryl doesn't know how long the three of them sit there in silence. He's in an almost doze, listening to the creak of the rocker going back and forth, the gentle squeak of the runners on floorboards. It's the most restful feeling Daryl's had in days. Until the door opens and Daryl starts automatically, his eyes jerking open, his head knocking against the headboard of the bed. Hershel stands in the doorway, Rick and Shane right behind as he walks into the room with some pill bottles.

"Well. I see our patient is awake," Hershel says. Hershel's an old man, Daryl reminds himself as his fists tighten unwillingly, his jaw sets. He's an old fuck who loves suspenders and the bible, he can't do anything to him. But Daryl feels exposed after the guy saw his back, stitched him up. And he's gotta be pissed about the horse. Who knows where she is now. But none of that shit matters. He'd lose twenty horses if it meant getting the girl back safe. "How're you feeling, son?"

The word son makes Daryl bristle. He ain't no one's son, not anymore. But his eyes dart over to the corner. Sophia is sitting straight up on her mother's lap, eyes fixed on him hopefully. So instead of telling Hershel to fuck off, he says "Better. M'fine."

"Well. I wouldn't go that far. You've got an infection in the puncture would in your side - it's a wonder the cuts on your head are fine. Eighteen stitches, all told, between all three injuries, and that's not mentioning the scrapes and abrasions you've collected. You're lucky you made it back when you did. Much longer -" Hershel's eyes dart to Sophia, and he finishes with, "Would have been worse." 

Daryl nods. His fingers are itching to pick at his cuticles, but not in front of Hershel, of Rick and Shane. 

"As it is, you're not out of the woods yet," Hershel says warningly. He looks at Rick. "Had no idea we'd be going through the antibiotics so quickly."

"Ain't need no charity," Daryl says quickly. "Y'can keep them. Got meds of my own. I'll manage."

"Where've you been hiding meds?" Shane asks. "We could use -"

"Ain't hidin' nothin, shit," Daryl says. "S'my brother's stash. Gave T-Dog some when he got hurt. Jus' savin' the rest for when it's needed." 

Hershel looks almost amused for a second. "Ah. Merle Dixon, I suppose. We're all grateful for his venereal disease."

Daryl scowls. Is he being made fun of? He ain't had the clap. And Merle's meds had saved T-Dog's life. Wasn't nothing to joke about.

"Well, if someone can go fetch those, that'll help," Hershel continues. He's looking at Daryl pensively. "Am I right to guess you may have some pain medication also?"

Dary's scowl deepens. He's super conscious of Sophia perched quietly in the corner, of Carol listening. Rick and Shane, whatever, they knew Merle, they know Daryl's trash and he comes from trash. He's not sure why it stings to have Hershel figure that out without knowing Merle. 

"Some," Daryl says shortly. "Gave T-Dog a couple." Does meth count as pain medication? Ecstasy? "Ain't looked through all of 'em," Daryl adds, which is true. Merle got mad when people poked through his shit. Daryl hadn't touched it until T-Dog got cut. 

"Well. We'll see what you'll have. Think you'll need some pain management before this is all done." 

Daryl scoffs. "Ain't no - wimp," Daryl says, eyes darting over to Sophia again. "Can handle a little pain."

Hershel's face is still as he looks at Daryl. It's just something around the eyes that tells Daryl he's feeling something. 

"I'm sure you can," Hershel says. He looks at Rick. "Well?" 

"I'll send Glenn down to your tent," Rick says to Daryl. His eyes look like a puppy dogs. Daryl's surprised he ain't wagging his tail. "Anything else you need?"

Like what? Merle's porn stash? His motorcycle vest? "Naw," Daryl mutters. He looks away from Rick and finally gives Sophia and Carol his full attention. 

"How you doin'?" Daryl asks. Sophia has been good and quiet while Hershel and Rick blabbed on, but when Daryl speaks to her she lights up. It's weird seeing her that way after how she'd been most of their time together, little and scared. Being with her ma must help some. And maybe she trusts Daryl now, just a little. He promised he'd bring her back and they'd done it. Maybe she doesn't have to be so nervous.

"Good," Sophia says. 

"He look at your ankle?" Daryl asks uncomfortably. They should have looked at her first. He'd made it three days, another couple hours wasn't going to kill him. 

"Mhm," Sophia says, and she lifts her leg up so Daryl can see. It's re-wrapped in a clean ace bandage. "He said you did a real good job, right Mr. Hershel?"

Hershel smiles at Sophia and it softens the edges of his face. "I did."

Daryl's blushing, and he scowls. "Weren't nothin' special," he mumbles. At that, Rick and Shane are grinning too, and it pisses Daryl off. What? They thought he didn't know how to wrap a fucking sprained ankle? After his whole life, they thought he was that incompetent? Or did they just think he'd leave a little kid to suffer because he didn't give a shit?

"You've still got to stay off it for a while," Hershel says to Sophia. "Daryl did a good job but you've put more strain on it than you should've. Only thing that'll fix that is rest."

Daryl's hackles go up at that. Although that assumes they were ever down. "What was she s'posed to do, just sit on it?" Daryl asks. Why's he making it sound like Sophia did something wrong? "Woulda carried her but I was too fu - messed up."

"You did more than enough," Carol says from the chair. "And you need rest too."

Fuck that. "I'll be fine," he grumbles. "I'll just go sleep it off. Ain't no thing."

"You'll sleep it off right here," Hershel says firmly, and Daryl can feel his fists clenching again. Who is this fuck, to tell him what to do? "You've put strain on yourself too. I'd be surprised if that fever doesn't come back up in the night. You'll stay where we can keep an eye on you until you're well."

Daryl's about to snap at that - he doesn't need some old fuck like Hershel keeping an eye on him, he does fine on his own - but he can see Sophia in the corner, still cradled in Carol's lap. So he swallows it down, scowls. Just nods, once, curtly. 

He's not sure what reminds him of it - maybe it's just his head casting around for some way to change the subject, to quit talking about him. But Daryl's head suddenly snaps up and he looks at Rick, Rick who is still looking at Daryl with something that makes Daryl squirm. Gratitude, maybe. Whatever it is, it makes him uncomfortable, so maybe he's not as politic as he could have been.

"She tell you 'bout them guys?"

Rick's face shifts immediately, Cop Face. Serious. He sits on the end of the bed, blue eyes fixed on Daryl. Shane shifts forward too, and suddenly Hershel is crowded away from him. "She mentioned you'd come across someone," Rick says. "She didn't have many details. Said you'd hid her away."

Daryl looks at Sophia then. She doesn't look as radiant anymore - her fingers are curled in her ma's shirt and she's biting her lip again. Daryl looks at her. 

"You had anythin' to eat?"

Sophia nods. "Yeah."

"Y'wanna - go get me somethin'?" He feels awkward and stupid the second he says it. She's not meant to strain herself and he's sending her off to find him a sandwich. "I mean -"

"Come on, sweetheart," Carol says, and she scoops Sophia up in her arms. She's straining with it - Sophia is a wisp of a thing but she's tall, and Carol ain't no giant. But when Shane moves over as if to take her, Carol's grip only tightens. "Why don't we go wash up and get Daryl some dinner."

Dinner? How long has he been out? It wasn't more than ten when they'd stumbled back into camp. Something like adrenaline is starting to course through him. He should have told them straight off about Max and Greg and Randall. What if they'd been following them, turned up at the farm while he'd been out cold and no one there was any the wiser? Stupid. 

"Okay," Sophia says quietly, and she shifts awkwardly in her mother's arms. "Mama, I can -"

"Hush," Carol says, the sound too fond to be a rebuke. "I'm not letting you down."

The two of them vanish and it's just him and Rick and Shane. Hershel's by the window, looking out like he's not listening, though he'll probably hear every word. When he hears what Daryl's done, he'll probably pitch him out, infection or no infection. Well, fuck it. He couldn't have done anything but what he did. It's just what had to happen. 

"Hid out in that place I found t'other day," Daryl starts. He's finding it hard to look at any of them - maybe because he's about to confess a double murder to two cops and the biggest bible thumper he's ever met. "Up over the ridge."

"The old Miller place," Hershel says. Which, what the fuck does Daryl care what it's called? He just shrugs. 

"Guess. They, uh - we set a trip line, were keepin' watch but - " He scowls more, finds himself picking at the edge of the sheet. "There was three of 'em an' I only had one bolt, an' neither of us were in any shape to run." 

"Sophia said," Rick says. His voice is gentle which somehow just makes Daryl more mad. He doesn't need Rick playing fucking good cop. 

"Hid her, went upstairs. Was gonna ambush 'em," Daryl says. "They left one outside an' the other two came in." He looks at Rick then. Not at Shane, who is looking at Daryl with a frown, or at Hershel, still staring out the window. Rick is looking at him encouragingly, like he's a fucking kid in school with the teacher waiting for him to give the right answer. "I - the one outside got away." Why is he having trouble saying it? "Them others -" Daryl shrugs. "Did what I hadta," he mutters, and he keeps his eyes on the blanket. "They - y'shoulda heard 'em talkin'. They weren't lookin' for us. They was - some women had got away from their camp, an' they were tryin' to -" Daryl's mouth twists. "Put Sophia in the cupboard but went too quick. Forgot her doll. One of 'em found it, an' he was callin' out to her like -" Daryl's stomach turns. "Did what I hadta," he says again, and this time it's firmer, more solid. He did. He really did. 

Rick pats Daryl's leg under the blankets and Daryl tenses up automatically. "You did good," Rick says. "You got her back. You got both of you back. There's no shame in it."

"Not ashamed, shit," Daryl shoots out. "But that one outside got away - I couldn't get him in time, ran off into the woods. Jus' a kid, nineteen, twenty. Shoulda -"

"It's fine," Rick says again, and Shane butts in then. Daryl wonders if this is how they were as partners, good cop bad cop. 

"They say where the camp was?"

"Naw. Came from north, north east," Daryl says, trying to orient the house in his mind. "Kid ran off east, but that was the direction he was facin' anyway, might not mean nothin'."

"They say how many they are?" 

Daryl shakes his head, scowling. "Naw. Called out to 'em at first. Thought maybe if they thought I was alone they'd - but they just said they had a camp. A lotta guys. Friendly guys." Daryl looks at Rick again. "Those women they were lookin' for, they'd already - " Why doesn't he know what to say? "Messed with 'em," he finishes lamely. "Was talkin' to Sophia like - like the camp'd be real glad to have her," Daryl mumbles, and he wonders if that'll explain enough. 

"They have weapons?" Shane asks. 

"Handguns. Shot the first one upstairs with my bow, took his gun off him. Killed the second with it, then grabbed his. Gave it to Sophia." 

Rick nods at that. "She gave it to us. Seemed pretty glad to be rid of it."

"Tol' her it was for emergencies," Daryl said quick, in case they thought he was in the habit of letting pre-teens run around with loaded guns. "Showed her the safety'n shit. But if we got split up again -"

"It was a good idea," Rick says. There's a huff from Hershel in the corner - like how on earth could a redneck and a twelve year old running around the woods murdering people and gunning down walkers be a good idea? Daryl's head is starting to throb again, in time to his heartbeat. He closes his eyes then, but the throbbing doesn't stop. 

"You think you could show us all this on a map? Where they came from, where they were leaving to. The path y'all took back?" Rick is asking, and Daryl nods without opening his eyes. 

"Guess."

"Not right now, I don't think," Hershel says. He's moving over from the window, Daryl can hear, and he jerks when Hershel's smooth, cool hand presses against his forehead. "His fever's going back up."

"Glenn'll bring you the meds from Daryl's stuff," Rick is saying, and it's like he's swimming away from him, his voice echoey and strange. "We can do a run to town - try for some fever reducers, or -"  
  
"Maggie's gotten most of that already from the places nearby. And if there's people coming this way -"  
  
After that, everything is far away, again. Daryl drifts.

* * *

It's dark outside when he wakes up again. The room is lit by a little light by his bed. He feels sweaty but cold and he shivers, once as he looks around. The bedside table has a plate on it, loaded up with food gone cold - a hunk of mashed potatoes, a handful of green beans, a thick slice of ham. It's like a meal from TV or something, better than anything Daryl's had in his whole life. There's pills next to it too - he sees a little white round one that might be oxy, something that looks like acetaminophen. It's not until seeing the pills that his body hurts again, all of it in a rush, and he stifles a groan as he tries to pull himself to sitting. He's gonna eat that food first off, then he'll figure out the pills.   
  
"You're awake."  
  
Daryl's body jolts, which makes the pain flash and flare but he bites down on his tongue - he hadn't realized that he wasn't alone. But Carol is there, sitting in the windowsill. Curled up in the rocker, wrapped in a blanket with a pillow shoved under her head, wearing a matching pajama set and with wet hair, is Sophia. She's out like a light.   
  
"Girl should be in bed," Daryl grunts. He scootches himself up in the bed some, leans his back against the headboard. He's still not wearing a shirt, which maybe is why he's cold.   
  
"She didn't want to go until she gave you your dinner. I told her she could wait." Carol's smiling at her daughter, her face soft. "It's probably cold by now."  
  
It is, but Daryl doesn't care. He reaches out for it anyway, stifles another groan when that tugs at his stitches.   
  
"Let me," Carol says. And then she's walking over next to him, making Daryl pull the sheet up high on his chest like some embarrassed girl.

"Can do it myself," Daryl says.   
  
"I know you can. But let me."  
  
He doesn't know what to say to that. So he lets her.   
  
She goes for the pills first. Hands them to him as she fills up a glass of water from an old fashioned pitcher. Daryl squints at the pills, feels at them. He takes the acetaminophen no problem. Puts the oxy back down. Carol looks at him.   
  
"I'll take it later," Daryl mumbles. He tries not to look at Sophia. What if he took it and she woke up and he was high? Ain't right. 

Carol looks at him a long moment. Then nods. "Do you want this? I could go heat it up for you -"  
  
Daryl just holds out a hand for the plate. Warm or cold, it'll all end up in his belly the same way. Carol hands it to him. He forgoes the fork and knife and just dives right in, picking at the green beans first. It's the first vegetable he's had in a long time that didn't come out of a can. 

Carol is still standing there next to his bed, until all of a sudden she sits on the edge of it. Daryl forces himself to ignore her, to keep eating. He's not good at this shit. Feelings shit. He brought Sophia back. He'd fully expected Carol to forget about him by now. So why are the two of them still there?  
  
He probably shouldn't have ignored her, because all of a sudden she's close to him, too close. Daryl freezes. The hand holding the plate doesn't move, but Daryl reaches down with greasy fingers and tugs at the sheet again. His chest ain't as bad as his back but it's still pretty messed up.   
  
But Carol doesn't stop coming closer until her lips brush against his head bandage, the gentlest kiss in the world. Then she pulls away.   
  
"Watch it, I got stitches," Daryl says. He doesn't know where to look. He remembers her kissing Sophia's cheek, running her fingers through her hair, and it makes his stomach turn over. Carol doesn't have to be nice to him just because he found her girl. She doesn't have to pretend.   
  
"You need to know something," Carol says, her voice low. Sophia, in the rocker, doesn't stir. "You did more for my little girl today than her own daddy ever did in his whole life."  
  
"I din't do anythin' Rick or Shane wouldn'ta done," he mumbles. He doesn't know what to do.   
  
"I know," Carol says. "You're every bit as good as them. Every bit."   
  
Daryl blows air out of his mouth, pffts at her. He's a redneck with a junkie for a brother and a back more scar than skin. He cussed the whole time and scared her kid and he took three days to get her home because he'd gotten thrown from a fucking horse. He didn't do shit for that little girl that she couldn't have done better for herself, if her ankle hadn't been busted.   
  
"I - I'll never be able to thank you," Carol says. Her voice is tight with holding back tears and Daryl remembers her in the RV, curled up in that chair like Sophia was, crying all night because her girl was lost. Her girl is found now, so why is she still crying. "Never. I'll -"  
  
"Don't need thankin'," Daryl says gruffly. He starts to pick at the food again, more for something to do than because he's hungry. Although when he starts eating again, swooping a bean through the mashed potatoes, it tastes good enough to restore his appetite. "Didn't do it for thanks."  
  
"I know," Carol says. "She's - she's everything to me."   
  
"S'good kid," Daryl says around a mouthful of potatoes. "Smart." Carol smiles at him, and her lip trembles.   
  
"I know I haven't - done enough for her," Carol says. Daryl looks at her. At her hair, close cut to her head (remembers his daddy pulling his ma around the kitchen, fist knotted in her curls, her crying) the way her collarbone sticks out of the top of her shirt. There's the faintest ghost of a bruise on one arm, like someone grabbed her. It's almost healed, just the faintest hint of yellow left. Nobody else even notices it anymore, he bets. But Daryl sees it.   
  
"Y'done plenty," Daryl says shortly. And Carol has. He knows what the others must think - that Carol must not have loved her kid as much as she loved Ed, or she'd have left him. But Daryl knows that's not it. Knows that it's hard and complicated, to leave, and that care doesn't look how people think all the time. He knows how the others looked at him and Merle, Merle shoving and cussing at him all the time. They thought Merle was like their pa, mean and rough and treating Daryl like shit. They didn't understand. Care looks different depending on where it's allowed to grow. And the care Carol has for that girl shines out of her face, her eyes, her voice, trickles out with every tear. That's real. That's what matters. "She asked about you first thing. She knew you was waitin' for her."  
  
"She's - after the quarry -" Carol doesn't say Ed's name, Daryl has noticed. "I said, it's a new start. I can be - how I was meant to, with her. I can keep her safe. And then the first thing -"  
  
"World ain't safe," Daryl says. And it's true. It never has been. Not for them. "You got her now."  
  
"I do," Carol says. "Thanks to you."  
  
The food is almost gone without Daryl realizing it. He feels less cold - maybe because he's got some food in him. Maybe something else.   
  
"You gave us a second chance," Carol says. "I'm not going to waste it."  
  
Daryl's about to open his mouth, to explain how he didn't give her anything. He could have been too late for that girl a hundred times over, he could have -   
  
But then there's a whimper from the corner, a creak as the rocking chair shifts, and both their eyes go straight to Sophia.   
  
Her face is puckered up some, and it's the same kind of noise from last night - like a little wounded creature, caught in a trap. Daryl toys with the idea of throwing a green bean at her, but Carol's already over there, taking care of it. She's brushing Sophia's hair back from her face, a soft shushing noise coming from her mouth, and Sophia's face smoothes without her even waking up. The noises stop as Carol hums at her, a little tuneless thing that seems to sweep away the fear as quick as it came. It's not until Carol finishes, takes a step back, that Daryl realizes he's been stock still, watching.   
  
"Should get her to a real bed," Daryl mutters, finishing the last of the food on his plate and shoving it back on his nightstand. He wipes his fingers on his sheets, realizing a half a beat later that he probably should have asked for a napkin or something. "Wake up with a crick in her neck, she stays like that." He looks at Carol. "I could - help you carry her, if you -"  
  
"No," Carol says. "That's all right. I've got her." She scoops Sophia into her arms - not the most graceful maneuver, and she staggers a little as she tries to juggle Sophia into place, but she manages. Carol smiles at Daryl. "Won't be able to do this for much longer. Got to make the most of it."   
  
Sophia snuggles down in her mother's arms. She makes a noise, a questioning noise, and Carol runs a hand down her back.   
  
"It's all right. Go back to sleep. Daryl got his dinner so it's time for us to go to bed. Hershel made up a whole room just for us, aren't we lucky?" Carol looks at Daryl. "You should take that," she says softly, head nodding at the abandoned oxy on the table. Daryl shrugs, which makes his whole body tense with pain again. Which seems to prove Carol's point. Sophia mutters into her mother's shoulder again, stirring, and Carol runs that hand down her back again. "Come on. Time to sleep. Say goodnight to Daryl."  
  
"Gnite," Sophia mumbles into her mother's neck.   
  
"Night," Daryl says back awkwardly. Carol smiles at him.   
  
"See you tomorrow," she says softly. And carefully, she edges her way out of the room and down the hall.   
  
Leaving Daryl alone at last and with too much to think about. 


	9. Reading Day

Daryl wakes up to late morning sun and an unexpected visitor.   
  
Carl Grimes, in his daddy's hat, has come to call. 

He's sitting on a stool near to Daryl's bed, watching him. Daryl can count on one hand the times he and the Grimes kid have talked, and still have a finger to flip somebody off with. He blinks stupidly, the sun in the windows too bright - he's slept late, too late, should have been up by now - and Carl Grimes jumps when Daryl blinks, like he's a statue that's suddenly come to life.   
  
"You're awake!" Carl says. He beams at Daryl. "And I didn't wake you, right? I told Mom and Carol I wouldn't wake you, that I'd just sit quiet 'til you woke up on your own. And I did, right?"  
  
"...yeah," Daryl says. He's missing a step here. He can't for the life of him figure out why Carl Grimes is in his bedroom watching him sleep. His brain is moving slow still - maybe from the oxy he took last night, maybe from all the shit he'd done to himself the past couple days. "Sure."  
  
Carl smiles at him again, looking doofy under his dad's sheriff hat. Daryl's not sure he's really seen Carl since he got shot. He'd been kept inside by his ma, recovering, and Daryl'd been out looking. Daryl looks the kid up and down.   
  
"Y'a'right?" Daryls asks finally.   
  
"Me? Yeah, great. I mean - my side still kind of hurts, where I got shot?" Carl says it like maybe Daryl forgot he'd been shot. "But Hershel says it's healing good and Patricia says I should walk around so I don't forget how."  
  
"...Cool," Daryl mumbles. He looks at his nightstand. The water pitcher is still there, and the glass, but he feels like he'll spill it if he tries himself and he'd rather light himself on fire than ask Carl Grimes to pour it for him.   
  
"Where're the others at?" Daryl asks. Not that he expects any of them to be with him - hell, they've got better shit to do - but there's something unsettling about being alone except for one kid.   
  
"Um. Shane's going to do gun training today so he and my dad went to go find a spot to do it. And Maggie and Glenn are going on a run. They're going to look for more medicine for you."  
  
"Don't need more meds," Daryl says. "M'fine."  
  
Carl shrugs. "I guess they're getting other stuff too. Nobody's been on a run since you went missing. They were busy looking for you." Daryl scowls a little at that. Great job they'd done - where the hell had they been looking? Carl doesn't seem to notice. "Shane's going to take me when they do gun training. So I can learn to shoot. Isn't that cool?"  
  
"Guess," Daryl says. "Ain't a toy though."  
  
"Well, yeah, I know that," Carl says, rolling his eyes. "I want to be able to help the group. So next time -" Carl quiets then, and he looks at Daryl seriously, so seriously that Daryl almost looks over his shoulder to see what's coming.   
  
"Thank you," Carl says, weirdly formal in his stupid hat. "For finding her." He folds his hands, almost primly in his lap. Daryl is staring. What the fuck is happening? "I thought - I thought I'd be the one to find her," Carl says, and he suddenly sounds like a kid again. "But if I couldn't - I'm glad you did."  
  
Daryl nods. Carl is looking at him like he's expecting something but Daryl has no idea what. "Whatever," Daryl mutters. "Din't do nothin'. She did the hard work."  
  
Carl nods back at Daryl, then grins. "Do you think Carol will let her come with us? For the shooting lesson?"   
  
"Uh-uh," someone says from the doorway, and Daryl stifles a groan as Lori Grimes comes in.   
  
She's carrying a tray full of breakfast - a real farm breakfast, eggs and sausage and a hunk of homemade bread slathered in butter. Daryl's stomach growls loud enough for Carl to give him a delighted grin.   
  
"Lucky you, on house rations," Lori says, sliding the tray onto the nightstand. It barely fits. "What'd we have outside this morning, baby?"  
  
"Oatmeal," Carl says, and he makes a face. Daryl doesn't get kids who complain about food. At Carl's age, he'd eat anything.   
  
"How are you feeling?" Lori asks. Her hand brushes over Daryl's forehead and he jerks back. What is it with everyone touching him all of a sudden? Lori looks a little nonplussed. "You all right? You don't feel warm."  
  
"M'fine," Daryl says. He looks at the tray of food.   
  
"Why can't Sophia come?" Carl asks Lori. "I'd help her, she could -"  
  
"Sophia is taking it easy. And you should be too. I don't know if going shooting today is the best -"  
  
"Mo-om! No! You said already that I could, Shane said -"  
  
"Is Shane your mother? Or am I?"  
  
Daryl's head hurts suddenly, hearing Carl and Lori talk at each other. He misses the quiet of last night, Carol and Sophia in the rocking chair. He wishes he could be alone again, go back to sleep. Just have silence again.   
  
"He didn't wake you, did he Daryl? He promised that if we let him stay -"  
  
"Naw," Daryl mutters. He wants that food in his stomach and to be left alone. If Carl weren't there, he'd tell Lori to get the fuck out. But something about the way Carl keeps looking at him, the shy sort of wonder, makes him hold his tongue. He can wait them out.   
  
He hopes.   
  
Daryl doesn't have to wait that long though, because a minute later, Sophia and Carol are back.   
  
It's amazing how much difference a day can make. Yesterday Sophia was filthy, injured, dragging herself across the forest with a fucking stick. The thing that strikes Daryl, as she hobbles into the room on a pair of oversized crutches, is how healthy she looks. Sure, she's still a little haggard from her time out there, and she's hopping along on those crutches, but she's clean and her hair is brushed and her freckles are somehow more vibrant. It's weird to see her in different clothes - it almost makes her feel like a different person than she was in the woods, and Daryl feels almost shy as she smiles at him. He scowls instead - he's not some blushing kid, acting shy - and looks longingly at the food on the nightstand that Lori still hasn't handed over to him.  
  
"Hi Carl," Sophia says. She hovers in the doorway, clearly still trying to figure out how best to swing around on those crutches. "Shane's downstairs and he says if you want to do gun training -"  
  
Carl's out of the room so fast Daryl's shocked he doesn't leave that hat behind, like a cartoon character running out of their shoes. Lori heaves a huge sigh and is following him, saying "Carl, baby, don't run -"  
  
The room settles almost immediately when the two Grimes leave. Carol leans over first thing and plops the tray onto his lap, thank god, and Daryl just digs into the food. He shouldn't be that hungry, he ate that whole plate last night, but he's ravenous. He feels conscious suddenly of how fast he's moving, and tries to slow down.  
  
"Feed a fever, that's what Patricia said," Carol says absently. "Good morning." She looks at the window. "Well. Good afternoon."  
  
"S'afternoon?" Shit. He'd slept half the day away. How was there breakfast for him when he was waking up at noon?   
  
"Almost," Sophia says. She's balancing two books under her arm as she tries to balance on those crutches, and it's only a second until everything slips. Carol's there in a heartbeat, taking the books, letting Sophia lean on her.  
  
"Should get up," Daryl mumbles around a mouthful of toast and eggs. "I can -"  
  
"You're still on bedrest," Carol says. She doesn't sound mean about it, but it's firmer than he's heard her speak before. He looks at her uneasily as he picks up a sausage with his fingers and takes a bite.   
  
"It's a Reading Day anyway," Sophia says, like that's supposed to mean something.   
  
"Wha's a readin' day?" Daryl asks, chewing. As he speaks, he realizes he's probably not modeling good manners or shit. Not that anyone had ever modeled them for him - mealtimes were sort of a fend for yourself type deal when he was growing up, and Merle wasn't much better. The only cutlery they'd used regularly were spoons for shitty off brand cereal. But maybe he wasn't supposed to talk with his mouth full - he'd had a teacher tell him off for that once, said he was disgusting. He chews more.   
  
"It's when you're sick or not feeling good -" He can see Carol stiffen a little at that, her hand on Sophia's back. "So you stay in bed all day and read books and have breakfast in bed and get cozy."   
  
It does sound cozy when Sophia says it. But looking at Carol, he wonders how many Reading Days there'd been where she'd been hurting too bad to get out of bed. It makes Daryl feel hyperaware on the fact that he's still shirtless under the covers, feels the scars on his back almost tingle.   
  
"Just thought we'd stop by and bring you some things," Carol says. She hands over a shirt - one of Rick's, Daryl thinks, a tee shirt that's cleaner than anything Daryl owns. "Thought you might want something fresh."  
  
Or anything at all. Daryl takes it, already smudging it with his greasy fingers, and grunts. He'll wait to put it on till they leave.   
  
"And -" Carol holds out another handful of pills. Daryl looks at them mistrustfully.   
  
"Feel fine," Daryl says. "Don't need them."  
  
"You might feel fine because you took them last night," Carol points out. "Anyway, these ones are antibiotics. You have to do the full course - that infection in your side is no joke."  
  
Daryl takes the pills to get her to shut up. There's some yellow ones that must be the antibiotics, another round of acetaminophen, and one more oxy. He looks at Carol. What's wrong with her, giving him shit like that with her kid around? Oxy never made Merle mean - it made him almost too nice, pleasantly spacy. But he could get mean when he didn't have any, and he could do stupid shit, and just being around Merle high was a lot sometimes - Daryl remembers as a kid, being around his dad and not understanding why he'd change, sometimes, why he'd act different from one moment to the next. Oxy was never as bad as crystal or coke but it wasn't nothing. Daryl shouldn't be doing that shit around her kid.   
  
"I - I brought you these," Sophia says. Now she's the one who sounds shy. She's still clutching the books under her arm, and it takes some maneuvering for her to hand them over to him. Daryl squints at them. He doesn't know enough about books to know if he'd like them or not - they look nicer than the books near grocery check out counters, so that's something. He grunts again.   
  
"Thanks." He flips one book over to look at the back, gives himself a minute. He can read, he's not an idiot. But the letters swim around sometimes, especially when his head hurts, and it can take him a moment to gather his thoughts. "You find that book you were talkin' about?"  
  
Sophia shakes her head. "Beth didn't have it. But she had some other stuff, so. It's fine."  
  
"A'right," Daryl says. When he's better, he'll go out and find that book for her. Bring it back. She deserves that, after all this shit. "Well, uh. Thanks." He holds up the books awkwardly. "For the shirt an' stuff too."  
  
"Do you need anything else?" Carol asks. She was taking his plate - emptied now, just a couple crumbs and a smear of yolk left. "We can -"  
  
"Naw," Daryl mumbled. And he didn't. There was nothing. Right? "M'gonna head back to my tent anyway. Rest better there." Daryl's not sure if that's true - this bed is probably the most comfortable he's ever had, and even with Merle's bedroll for extra padding, the ground in his tent is going to be hard on his stitches. But being in the house is bad in its own way - something about walls, about being stuck in bed with an open door where anyone could bust in. It itches at him in a way that has nothing to do with stitches.   
  
"You can't," Sophia blurts out. Carol's mouth is open too - probably going to try and tell him what to do, which he's not going to take. She ain't his fucking mother. But Sophia looks so plaintive, so worried, that Daryl bites back the venom he was ready to unleash and just frowns at her.   
  
"Be fine. My tent is uh. Cozy." That's stretching it some - sure, it's his, but it was his and Merle's before and his daddy's before that. It's old and reeks of cigarettes and sweat but it's his. That's enough. He darts a look at Carol. "I'll still be restin' and that."  
  
"But - it's Reading Day," Sophia says. She looks at her mother, then back at Daryl, and she flushes like she's embarrassed. He can see her shoulders start to hunch in on themselves, see her making herself smaller, which makes Daryl scowl. Fuck. She'd been almost bouncy, what the fuck had he done now?  
  
"Daryl needs to rest, sweetheart," Carol murmurs, a hand on Sophia's shoulder. "He'd probably like to be alone."  
  
Oh. The kid had thought - Daryl can't even picture what the kid thought. Himself and Carol and the kid, all cozied up, reading books together? The image feels alien, too foreign even to be funny. Just weird. No wonder she's embarrassed to have thought it. She's probably regretting it now.   
  
"S'fine," Daryl mumbles, looking anywhere but at the set of Sophia's shoulders, at Carol's stupid face. "Just ain't had a - readin' day before." He feels stupid just saying it. "Din't get that it was uh. Somethin' you did as a group."  
  
Sophia shrugs. Tense little shoulders. "It doesn't matter," she says.   
  
Fuck it. "Naw, jus' - I'll probably fall asleep or whatever," Daryl says. "Won't be good company." Like he's ever good company.  
  
"Come on, sweetheart. We'll set up in Beth's room again. She won't mind." Carol's shooting Daryl a look that's mostly sympathetic. Like she's trying to say it isn't his fault he made her kid all sad and shit.   
  
"Didn't say y'hadta go," Daryl says. Sophia, who's been starting to crutch away, stops. Looks back at him.   
  
"I -" Her face looks indecisive, nervous. Daryl rolls his eyes.  
  
"Girl, sit down 'fore you fall on your ass and bust that leg up worse." He probably shouldn't have said ass. He looks at Carol, ready for the reprimand.   
  
Instead, Carol is looking at him like he hung the moon.

Sophia's focus is on navigating over to the rocker - those crutches are grown up sized, even on their shortest setting they look uncomfortable, jammed under her armpits. Daryl takes the opportunity to pull on the shirt Carol brought him - kid's too busy trying not to fall to be looking at him.   
  
But in keeping his body angled away from Sophia, he realizes he's turned his back fully towards Carol.   
  
Fuck. Before this shit, he could count on one hand the amount of people to see his back. The doctor at the ER when he'd fallen working construction. Some girl he'd been messing around with when he was nineteen - she'd taken off his shirt and frozen. It'd gotten too weird to go further, and with the next girl he'd left his shirt on. Uncle Jess. (Don't think about that.) Hershel, yesterday.  
  
And his daddy. Fucking stand up group.   
  
Merle used to rag on him endlessly, like he was so fucking shy he couldn't take his shirt off in a Georgia summer. Merle took his off no problem, and Merle's back was as tattered as his own. Maybe a little less - once Merle got big enough, he'd never been afraid to fight back, which had made their dad warier around him. But even Merle never told anyone where the scars were from. Daryl'd heard him tell a chick once that he'd gotten them in Afghanistan as a POW, when everyone knew Merle never made it out of the States before his dishonorable discharge.   
  
So Merle went shirtless, sure. But Daryl never did. He didn't know what Merle thought would happen, when Merle left Daryl behind. If he thought their pa would stop, or if he just didn't care, figured Daryl could watch his own self. But if Daryl took off his shirt, if Merle saw, then Daryl would know. If Merle wasn't mad about it, if Merle wasn't surprised, if Merle saw the scars and kept going, it'd mean he'd known when he left what would happen. And he'd gone anyway.   
  
Daryl didn't know if he could stay with Merle if that were true.   
  
Not that it mattered anymore. Merle was gone, best case running around with a stump somewhere, worst case dead. His dad was dead. Jess was dead. Everyone who'd seen his back was dead, apart from Hershel.   
  
And now Carol.   
  
Daryl doesn't look at her. Yanks at the shirt, angrily, so hard he has to force himself to slow his hands. If he ripped the shirt he'd be back where he started.   
  
When Carol circled around to join Sophia back at the rocker, she doesn't look any different. There's a tightness around her eyes, maybe, but Daryl busies himself with the pills - swallowing the antibiotics dry, leaving the others - and avoids her eyes. Lays back in the bed, the shirt cool against his skin.   
  
"What are you going to read first?" Carol asks as Sophia settles herself in the chair. For a moment Daryl thinks she's talking to him, until he sees Sophia scrunch up her face.  
  
"You pick."  
  
"Nuh-uh," Carol says, producing more books from somewhere. "Your turn." It sounds familiar between them, there's a rhythm to it. Daryl wonders how often they've had the same exchange, how many times they'd done this. Cozied up somewhere to rest, recover, heal wounds. Just the two of them.   
  
"Um - Little House?"  
  
"You sure?" Carol asks. "We've done those before."  
  
"Yeah, but." Sophia shrugs, which sets the rocker to moving a little. "I don't mind."  
  
"All right," Carol says. She hands one of the books to Sophia. Looks at Daryl. Daryl looks away quick. Grabs one of the books at random, squints at it. Looks like a detective book. He opens it, waits for the letters to stop jumping.   
  
"Will - will you read it?" Sophia asks her mother. Her voice sounds small. "I know I'm too big -"  
  
"You're not," Carol says. "But why don't you read to yourself a little. Maybe Daryl would like the quiet."  
  
"Don't care," Daryl grunts. He doesn't look up from the page of his possibly-detective book. "Ain't gonna bother me."  
  
He can hear the smile in Carol's voice. "All right. I'll read first. Then you can do some too. Sound good?"  
  
"Yeah," Sophia sighs. The book opens - Daryl can hear the pages as he pretends to read. He figures he'll give it a minute then pretend to sleep. Then the kid'll probably get bored and want to go.   
  
But Carol's voice is soft and soothing, making Daryl relax a little even without meaning to.   
  
"Once upon a time, sixty years ago, a little girl lived in the Big Woods of Wisconsin, in a little gray house made of logs."  
  
Daryl wonders why Sophia wants to read a book about big woods when she was just lost in some big woods.   
  
"The great, dark trees of the Big Woods stood all around the house, and beyond them were other trees and beyond them were more trees. As far as a man could go to the north in a day, or a week, or a whole month, there was nothing but woods. There were no houses. There were no roads. There were no people. There were only trees and the wild animals who had their homes among them."  
  
Sounds like his kind of place, Daryl thinks as he feels his book falls against his chest. 

He sleeps and he dreams of the woods.

* * *

Carol's voice snuck into his head before he even knew he was awake. It snuck into his dreams. He wasn't sure what he'd been dreaming before that - he was in the woods, it was dark and quiet, the trees - but Carol's voice sneaks in and suddenly he's in a cabin, feeling the fire, listening to a story.

"...But Laura and Mary were never afraid when Pa went alone into the Big Woods. They knew he could always kill bears and panthers with the first shot. After the bullets were made and the gun was loaded, came story-telling time."   
  
"Skip the story?" Sophia says suddenly. "I - I don't like how it ends."  
  
"Okay," Carol says. Daryl can hear the pages flipping. "Should we take a break?"  
  
"Is he still asleep?"  
  
Daryl tries to keep his breathing even.   
  
"He's pretty sick. He'll probably need a lot of sleep before he's a hundred percent again."  
  
"Would - would he be better if he'd got back quicker? If I hadn't slowed him down? Mr. Hershel said -"  
  
"That's not what he meant," Carol says firmly. "He just meant - it's serious, Daryl's injury. We need to take it seriously. But it was always going to be serious, whenever you all got back. And he's going to be okay."  
  
"Should - am I bothering him?" Sophia asks in barely a whisper.   
  
"If you were, he'd tell you," Carol says, and Daryl gets the suspicion that Carol knows he's awake.   
  
"Do you think - are those guys going to find us?" Sophia asks.   
  
Daryl stays incredibly still.  
  
"What guys?"  
  
"The guys - from the camp? The friends of the ones Daryl - I - I heard Sheriff Rick and Mr. Hershel talking when I - I wasn't sneaking," Sophia says, which in Daryl's experience means she was definitely sneaking. It'd be funny if she didn't suddenly sound scared. "I - Patricia was finishing Daryl's eggs and I was just waiting and they were talking in the hallway, I didn't mean - I'm sorry."  
  
"Shh," Carol says. "Slow down. It's all right." There's a moment of quiet. "Daddy is gone," Carol says suddenly, and Daryl almost flinches when she says it. The tone is stiff, awkward. Like Carol doesn't know what to say, how to express it. It sounds like a lie, even though Daryl knows it isn't, saw the proof with his own eyes at the quarry. Carol smashing in Ed's skull. "You don't - I don't think eavesdropping is polite, but. You're not going to get in trouble."  
  
"Okay," Sophia says. She sounds like she's lying too. "Sorry."  
  
"You don't have to be sorry," Carol says. "We - we'll get used to it. We're not going to be sorry anymore. All right? Me neither."  
  
Fuck being sorry. Being sorry doesn't do anything for anybody. And Sophia has nothing to be sorry for.   
  
There's a long moment, and Sophia shifts.   
  
"You want to take a turn?" Carol asks. And all of a sudden it's Sophia's voice reading, clear but halting.   
  
"Chapter Four. Christmas. Christmas was coming. The little log house - was almost buried in snow. Great drifts were banked - against the walls and windows. And in the morning when Pa - opened the door, there was a wall of snow - as high as Laura's head."  
  
It should have been annoying. But it isn't. Maybe that's why Daryl figures it's time to wake up.  
  
He shifts in the bed a little, grunts. From the suppressed grin Carol shoots at him, he's doing a shitty job at faking waking up. But Sophia doesn't seem to be able to tell. She looks up from her book at him, shy again.   
  
"How long I been asleep?" Daryl asks. Carol's mouth twitches, like she's going to rat him out.   
  
But she doesn't get a chance, because that's when the gunfire starts. 


	10. Shut the Barn Door

Daryl is out of bed and four steps across the room before his body remembers it's too banged up to do any good. His legs buckle halfway to the window and it is only Carol grabbing his elbow that keeps him from face planting.

"My bow," Daryl says urgently as Carol tries to help him up. "Where's my bow?"

"I -" Carol looks pale, drawn. "Glenn had it. I - I think he put it in your tent -"  
  
In other words, too far to be any use. Daryl looks at Sophia. She's still got that book in her hands, gripping it too tight to let it fall. Her ankle propped up in front of her. Okay. Shit. 

There's more gunshots and Daryl gets himself to the window, looks out. They're on the wrong side of the house - the gunshots are coming from the east and the window faces south, towards the road. Which at least tells Daryl something - whatever the others are shooting at, it didn't come in a car. 

Daryl tries to get his brain to slow down. There's too many options, is the problem. It could be walkers sneaking up, it could be the remainder of Greg and Max's camp, roused by Randall and on their doorstep. It could be some other fucks, it could be anybody. It could be anything. And Daryl's stuck up here, worse than useless with a woman and a girl to protect and no weapons, nothing -

"Is - maybe it's the shooting lesson," Sophia says. Her freckles are standing out on her face like they were painted on. "Remember, Officer Shane was going to teach Carl and everyone about guns, maybe -"  
  
"They wouldn't do that on our doorstep unless they wanted walkers to come calling," Daryl says. But it does tell him something useful. The fact that they're hearing guns at all probably means the shooting lesson is over. 

"We gotta get round to the other window," Daryl tells Carol. "See what's happening." She nods immediately.

"I - maybe Maggie's room. I think it faces the barn." She hesitates a moment, then sticks out her arm. "Come on."

Daryl finds himself hesitating too. Not because he's too good to accept help - although maybe a little of that. Not that he's too good, no, but Daryl certainly doesn't like taking help from anybody. Who knows what they'll want in return? But he doesn't take her arm right away because there's a certain stiffness to the way Carol's holding it, like she's bracing herself, and it makes Daryl uncomfortable. But comfort is a luxury, always has been, one that Daryl's never had, so he takes Carol's arm and they make their way out of the room. 

"You stay in here," Carol says firmly. Daryl hadn't even noticed Sophia maneuvering herself to her feet, those crutches shoved under her armpits. 

"What? No!" For a second she sounds like Carl and it's disconcerting to Daryl, to hear Sophia sound like a little kid. "Mom, you can't -"

"Keep watch on that window," Daryl says briskly. Because there isn't time to fight about it and Sophia's the kind of kid that'll do something if it makes sense, even if she hates it. "Give a yell if you see anyone out there, anyone coming down the road. Gonna need some warning if we're gonna fight on two fronts. Hear?"  
  
Sophia's mouth is set in a mulish line, but she jerks her head in a stiff nod and limps over to the window. 

Daryl and Carol don't delay after that. They go. 

Daryl hadn't been with it enough to look around when they'd brought him in here. The house feels eerily quiet around them, the only sound the creak of their feet stumbling over the floorboards and the muffled sound of gunfire, getting louder as they loop around the hallway to the other side of the house. It reminds Daryl of one of them living history museums they'd gone to on a field trip when he was in elementary school. Quiet and still and all the furniture looked handmade, the photos old. The place had history and even in the flurry of adrenaline coursing through his veins, it still felt dignified. He and Carol don't belong there, he thinks as they stagger across the hall, throwing open the door to Maggie's room. 

Maggie's room is a little different than the hallway - it still looks old and shit, a carved wooden bed frame, a solid oak desk. But she's got pictures pinned up on a bulletin board over the desk, ticket stubs from movies and concerts, a wobbly drawing of a horse, photos of her and a woman who must be her ma, old flyers from school plays and a picture of Maggie herself, young and gangly in a softball uniform, grinning with a trophy in hand. There's clothes on the floor and the bed is a rumpled, unmade mess. Maggie's room doesn't look like a museum. It looks like someone's home, and there's a pang in Daryl's stomach as he pulls away from Carol and makes his way to the window. 

He doesn't know if a place has ever looked so undeniably his in his life. 

But then Daryl's at the window and it doesn't matter anymore, what the room looks like, because what's important is what's outside. Daryl shoves the curtains out of his way, lets himself drop to the floor in front of the window. He winces a little as his knees jar against the wooden floor, and he can hear Carol murmur "Be careful, you're still not -"

But it doesn't matter what she says, and after a moment she cuts off abruptly as the gunfire starts up again. 

Daryl's not sure what he expected. A herd of walkers spilling out of the forest brush. A gang of dudes, Randall at the front, armed to the teeth. Hell, maybe the army - maybe they ran out of napalm and they're clearing the country house by house. 

But he didn't expect to see Rick holding a walker by the neck, the thing snarling and grabbing at the end of a snare pole. Didn't expect to see Hershel, in his knees in the dirt, Maggie sobbing and clutching his shoulders. 

Didn't expect to see the herd of walkers coming out of the barn. Didn't expect any of that. 

"The fuck is that?" Daryl breathes out. They keep coming - a ton of them. They'd been in there? In that barn, the whole time? Daryl thinks about smoking cigarettes near there in the dark, almost shudders. Carol is behind him, staring as the others - T-Dog, Glenn, Andrea, Shane - open fire and take them down, one by one. One after another after another, landing in the dirt. Hershel twitches with each one, like the bullets are hitting him, punching through him in a way that can't be seen but that Hershel can feel. 

Shane shoots the walker Rick is holding and then Rick joins in. He looks pissed. 

"We - we should tell Sophia it's all right," Carol says. She doesn't sound convinced it's all right, and her eyes are fixed not on the walkers, but on Shane. Shane, his whole body rigid with rage, picking off walkers one by one. When the walkers stop coming, he turns around, goes up to Rick. Pokes a finger into his chest, spitting something into his face. It's weirdly quiet when the gunshots stop, and Daryl feels stupid - he should have realized it wasn't a human threat. For all the gunshots, there were never any shots echoing after. No one had fired back.

But then the silence turns hard as one last walker - small, tiny, with a green shirt and a shaggy haircut, stumbles out of the barn. 

"Oh my god," Carol gasps, her hands covering her mouth. "Oh my god."

Carl is crying, outside - Daryl can't hear the words, but he can hear the sound, high pitched and scared, can see Lori holding his shoulders, trying to turn him away. 

Shane doesn't move. For all he was talking tough a minute ago, he's frozen in place, eyes fixed. It falls on Rick to do it. 

And Rick walks forward, purposeful strides, takes aim. 

And blows out the brains of the walker that used to be Louis Morales. 

* * *

"How did he even get here?" Sophia asks numbly for the third time.

They're back in their room - Daryl doesn't register how he's thinking of it as their room now. Back in Maggie's room, Carol had said blankly, "We should get back to Sophia. Tell her - tell her what happened."

Daryl grunted, pulled himself to his feet. 

"Y'gonna tell her about him?" Daryl asked. His head jerked towards the window, towards the lawn where the others were doing the growing familiar work of sorting the dead. 

"She'll find out," Carol said simply. "Carl knows. And he was her friend. She deserves better than a lie."

Daryl figures Carol hadn't meant it as anything against him, but it almost makes him flinch for some reason, and he's quiet all the way back to their room, the whole time Carol explains what happened, the whole time that Carol leaves to go find out more information and Sophia and Daryl are alone. Sophia just sits there with that doll, looking out the window like she'll be able to see something different than the last twenty times she looked. 

"He - they were going to Birmingham," Sophia says again. "What's he doing here?"

"Dunno," Daryl mumbles. He's perched back on the bed, his side throbbing something fierce. He wishes he could be the one to go downstairs and get information, wishes he could be the one asking what the fuck happened and why were there walkers in the barn and where the hell did the Morales boy come from, anyway? Daryl tries to remember if he ever exchanged two words with the kid and he can't. Which means he probably hadn't. The kid had kept pretty far from them after Merle called him names. But he was so small out there.   
  
So small and all alone. 

As if she can read his thoughts, Sophia looks up at him. She's sitting in the rocking chair, the chair pulled close to the bed by Carol before she went downstairs. "I'll be right back," Carol had said. But that was at least ten minutes ago and she's still gone and Daryl is bad at this shit. Carol should be here. She'd know how to answer these questions, how to make it right. Daryl doesn't know shit. And Sophia can tell. 

"Eliza wasn't there, right? Or his mom and dad?" Sophia has asked this before too. Daryl bites at his thumbnail. Is this normal, asking the same questions over and over? Maybe it's just because his answers suck. 

"Naw," Daryl says again. "Didn't see them."

Sophia's got that doll against her chest. She nods, once. Bites her lip.   
  
There's yelling from downstairs suddenly. Or maybe it's outside. The window in their room is open some, and the doors are all screens. Makes it tricky to tell where noises are coming from. Sophia tenses in the rocker, which makes it rock slightly. Daryl reaches out with one hand, grabs at the arm rest to slow its movement. Sophia doesn't move. She's too busy listening. 

Daryl is too. He can hear, faintly, Shane's voice, low and gruff, biting off the words angrily. Fucking pig. How does he have any right to be mad, when he's the one going all guns ablazing in the first place? Hershel's voice maybe after it, higher pitched, lost, then suddenly booming and furious. 

"Don't touch him!" Daryl's pretty sure that's Maggie. Glenn's horse girl is fucking tough as nails. 

The sound of skin against skin is something both he and Sophia recognize. It's a sharper sound than a punch - punches sound dull and heavy, with weight behind them. This is lighter, almost a crack. Daryl's pretty sure it's a slap. 

The air in the room is suddenly all gone as Sophia jerks in the chair again with the sound of the slap, almost violently. The doll falls to the floor and the chair sets off in a wild movement, and Sophia almost tumbles out onto the floor after her doll. 

Daryl's not trying to grab her or anything. Just keep her from landing face first on the ground. Daryl catches himself as he's already doing it - idiot, fucking idiot, moving too fast, going to freak her out, scare her, going to - 

But as he reaches for her, Sophia's hands latch on to his and somehow now she's pulled up onto the bed next to him, trembling. 

"What - what -" Sophia sputters, and Daryl doesn't know what to do with this lump of a kid next to him shaking, her hands closed around his in a death grip. 

"Ain't nothin'," Daryl mumbles. He doesn't know what to do because Sophia has his hands so he can't do any of the nice shit Carol does, stroke her hair or rub her back or whatever. And if Daryl tried Sophia's probably run in the other direction. He settles for squeezing her hands in his, roughly because that's the only way he knows to do anything. Her hands are small and soft in his. 

"Ain't nothin'," Daryl says again. "Hear that?" Sophia's breathing slows a little as she tries to listen. Daryl listens too - it's quiet now outside, quiet downstairs. There's the mumble of voices, footsteps, but they're slow and measured and the voices just sound sad.   
  
"It's over," Daryl says, and he's not sure what's over or if that's even true. "Ain't nothin'. Promise."  
  
Sophia's breathing is getting more normal and Daryl pulls one of his hands out of her death grip. He settles his hand carefully onto Sophia's shoulder - he can't touch her back. He can't make himself. But he grips her shoulder in one rough hand, gives it a squeeze. He feels all thumbs, awkward and bad at this. 

"Why are they fighting?" Sophia asks quietly. Her eyes are darting around, too quick, and Daryl squeezes her shoulder again clumsily.   
  
"Some weird shit just went down. Sometimes that makes people yell," Daryl says awkwardly. He's hardly the person to explain human behavior to a kid. He shrugs. "They're just mad at each other. Ain't gonna aim it at you. Or your ma."   
  
Daryl doesn't know how true that is, either. In his experience, angry people aim that shit wherever they want. They don't care who is in their way. But that's not helpful now, he's pretty sure, even if it is true. And he realizes there is something that is both helpful and true that he can say. 

"Even if they tried, wouldn't let nobody get at you. Or her. A'right?"

This seems to get through. Sophia looks up at him, her eyes finally fixed on one thing again. It makes Daryl feel trapped, stuck like a butterfly on a pin. He scowls, which probably is the opposite of helpful, but she doesn't slide off the bed and make a run for it. She just nods, once, jerkily. Like she's saying she heard him. Not like she's saying she believes him or anything. Which is smart. 

But when the footsteps start coming up the stairs, her body tenses up again and Daryl thinks she might start hyperventilating when the door finally opens and Carol is standing there, looking grave. 

Daryl has a weird urge to throw his hands up in the air. _I'm unarmed,_ he wants to say, _she grabbed me!_ But he's frozen in place and even if he weren't, Sophia's still got one of his hands in a death grip and his other hand is busy on her shoulder, so he couldn't get free even if he wanted. 

Carol doesn't say anything. He thinks he sees her lip twitch, once, but it doesn't turn into a smile or a frown as she comes over and gently disentangles Sophia from him. 

"You all right?" Carol asks softly. Sophia nods, but she doesn't make a move to get off of the bed. Just leans forward so her mother can rub circles into her back. 

"Heard a noise," Daryl grunts. He doesn't say what the noise is - Carol probably knows, and it doesn't matter. Carol just nods, once.   
  
"It's all right. Hershel was mad at Shane that Shane killed the walkers from the barn. They were just having an talk about it. But everything is fine."

"Why didn't Hershel want to kill them? Were they not dead yet?" Sophia's voice quavers, once. 

"No, no," Carol says hurriedly. "No, they were walkers already, just - Hershel was hoping that maybe one day, a doctor would be able to stop them from being walkers. He was hoping if he kept them in the barn for long enough, someone would figure out a cure and they could be people again."  
  
Daryl is staring at Carol. Is that true? Hershel really thought that? He can't tell if the old man has dropped in his estimation for being so fucking stupid or risen for taking such stupid risks for something that could never be anything but a dream. 

"Can - will they do that? Make walkers people again?" Sophia's eyes look frightened, and Daryl wonders if the twelve year old has grasped the moral implications of gunning down things that could become people again or if she's just scared her daddy will come back from the grave. 

"No," Carol says firmly. "No. That can't happen."

Yeah. It can't. 

After that, there is more - about Otis and the barn, about Louis Morales. No one can figure out how the kid got here. Daryl turns it over in his mind - it should have been a straight shot west from Atlanta to Birmingham, but maybe the Morales dad had taken a detour to avoid congested highways. Maybe they decided to make a pitstop at wherever they'd come from, get shit from home. Maybe the kid wandered off like Sophia and found himself too far south and all alone. Does it matter anymore how the kid got lost? The kid got lost and got bit and got killed and then got killed again.   
  
Daryl hadn't even known to look for him. And if he had, he wouldn't have found him. Not in time. The thought echoes dully in his head, in time to the throbbing pain from his side, and Daryl can't stop seeing the little body, covered in a blanket. Waiting for a lonely grave far from anyone who knew him.   
  
Daryl keeps thinking about Sophia, about what would have happened if she came out of the barn, and Daryl's fists tighten and release almost instantly. 

Carol catches the movement and frowns at him, though. Looks at his face.   
  
"You should have more medicine," Carol says. "Did you even take the painkiller?"  
  
"Don't need it," Daryl mumbles. And he doesn't. He just needs sleep. 

He ignores the fact that he's slept more in the past two days than he has in years. Sleep will do enough. He doesn't need to get high in front of the kid. 

Carol looks worried. "If - Daryl, if you're in pain, you should -"  
  
"I said I ain't in pain, didn't I?" He'd said it a million times. He's sick of saying it. "Just gotta get some more sleep."

Carol looks at him for a long moment, then nods. "Okay," she says. She touches Sophia's shoulder. "Come on, kiddo. Let's let Daryl sleep."  
  
Sophia's eyes go to Daryl and then to her mother, wordless. Daryl doesn't know if Carol really wants to get Sophia somewhere else, unpack all this shit with the Morales kid, or if she thinks if she gets Sophia out that Daryl will take the oxy. Daryl just shrugs. 

"Fell asleep fine with y'all in here before." Now that he says it out loud, Daryl takes a moment to marvel at that. He hasn't fallen asleep in a room with anyone but Merle for ages. "I mean - y'could go or stay, whatever. Don't care."  
  
Sophia looks at her mother pleadingly. Carol relents.   
  
"All right," Carol says slowly. She brushes at Sophia's hair, tucks it behind her ear. "But I told Patricia I'd help her with dinner. She's - a little upset from today, and -" Carol stops talking. "Well. And I said I'd help her. So if you stay with Daryl, you've got to read by yourself and stay here until I'm done, okay? I won't be able to come up and help you down again until after dinner's done."  
  
"I'm not a baby," Sophia says. It's be more convincing if she weren't still sitting on Daryl's bed with her ma petting her head. "I can read alone."  
  
"And let Daryl sleep, all right? He needs rest."  
  
"I will," Sophia says quickly. "Promise." 

"Okay," Carol says again. She leans forward and kisses Sophia on the forehead. She lingers there a moment, and Daryl wonders what she's thinking. Marveling at the warmth of her daughter's skin, at the soft huffs of her daughter's breath on her cheek? On the fact that Sophia is alive and not a little shrouded mound in the barnyard, waiting for burial? Daryl doesn't know. Carol pulls back and for a second he thinks she's going to plant a kiss on his forehead too, like yesterday. But maybe his scowl scares her off. 

"I'll check back in when dinner's done," Carol says again. Her fingers brush against Sophia's hair one more time. "Love you."  
  
"Love you too," Sophia says back. It doesn't sound particularly significant - it sounds almost rote, like a response learned by heart, automatic and easy. Somehow the fact that Sophia sounds mostly dutiful when she says it makes Daryl's heart clench in his chest. He busies himself with his pillows - rearranging them, punching one into a different shape - until Carol leaves, the door clicking shut behind her.   
  
Sophia seems to realize then that she's still on Daryl's bed. She blushes red and leans over the edge of the bed, scrabbling for her crutches. Daryl has to yank the neck of her skirt to stop her from toppling off. 

"Careful, girl. Gonna smack your head in," Daryl says gruffly. "Whatcha need?"  
  
"Oh, um. Just - I was going to get my crutches so I could get my book and get back in the chair -"  
  
Daryl squints at the chair. Points to it. "Ain't that your book there?"  
  
And it is - sitting open faced on the rocker, a little worse for wear for all the excitement. Sophia seems to blush harder. 

"Right. I - sorry, I -"  
  
"You can stay if you want," Daryl mumbles before he has the chance to think about it. She can - that rocking chair can't be too comfortable with her bum ankle, and the bed is so big that Daryl and Sophia don't even have to touch if they don't want to. The second he says it he regrets it - the kid didn't even want him to walk her to the bathroom, why would she want to stay next to him - 

But she just uncurls a little. Daryl focuses on setting himself up on the pillows - he shoves one her way without looking at her. If she wants to use it she can, or she can just leave it as a wall between them. He doesn't know why he feels better with the weight of the kid on the mattress next to him, and he doesn't let himself think about it. He just tries to settle himself in. 

Sophia's not curled up anymore. She's sitting up against the headboard, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She's using the pillow like an armrest and she's got the book propped up on it as she looks at it. It's weirdly cozy. He remembers sharing a bed with Merle as a kid, curled up next to him, the safety of Merle blocking out the world so he could sleep. He's starting to doze a little when there's footsteps down the hall again, and Sophia stiffens next to him. 

Daryl hates Ed in that moment, more than he's hated anyone for a while. More than he hates Rick for leaving Merle on that roof, more than his own father, in that moment. Because Merle and Daryl, they'd been dirty and wild things. Sophia is gentle and quiet and how could you fuck with someone so small? If Carol hadn't slammed Ed's head to pieces, Daryl'd crush him now. See how he liked it, having to deal with someone his own size. 

But it's not Ed who walks in. It's not Shane or Rick either, or even Lori or Carol. 

It's Carl Grimes, his hat askew and his face smudged with dirt and tears, hovering miserably at the doorway. 

"I - your mom said you were up here," Carl says. He looks like a lost puppy, hanging in the open doorway like that. 

"Yeah," Sophia says. She's relaxed a little but Daryl doesn't miss the way her eyes dart past Carl into the hallway. 

"You gonna stand there or you gonna come in?" Daryl asks. Carl jumps and steps in, closing the door behind him.   
  
"What are you doing?" Carl asks, coming around to the abandoned rocking chair. 

"Reading," Sophia says, holding up her book. Carl looks like he'd wrinkle his nose is he weren't feeling do down. 

"Oh," Carl says. He scuffs a sneakered foot on the floor. "What book?"  
  
"Little House in the Big Woods," Sophia says. Daryl thinks she should just hold up the book again. Kid can read, can't he? 

This time Carl does wrinkle his nose. "That's a girl book."  
  
"I guess," Sophia says. Which is more polite than Daryl's response would have been, of 'Well she's a girl, ain't she?' 

"Was pretty good when I was listening earlier," Daryl says, scowling at Carl. He's not going to let the kid be in here if he's going to be judgy or whatever. 

Carl perks up at that. "Yeah?"  
  
"I've read it before," Sophia says. "But I like it. They - I guess it's interesting to read it now." Sophia's fingers run over the edge of the book cover. "Because they don't have like electricity or the internet or anything. They just have to do everything themselves. So. Yeah." 

That's actually kind of smart. Daryl looks at the book consideringly. He hadn't thought about books. Books were still around, and so was all the information in them. 

Carl looks at her expectantly. Daryl scowls again, but he feels guilty when Carl reaches up with a grubby hand and rubs at his face. Kid just saw his friend turned into a monster and then get shot in front of him. Carl can be a pain today if he wants to be. 

Sophia has handed Carl the book, and Carl is flipping through it easily, looking at the illustrations. Pen and ink drawings of girls in skirts climbing trees, playing with a ball, putting meat in a smokehouse. (Shit, maybe that was a useful book.) Eventually he hands it back and leans back in the rocking chair, leaning forward and back so the runners squeak over the floorboards. Daryl shoots him a glare and Carl stops rocking immediately, which makes Daryl feel a little bad. 

But that chair shit was fucking annoying. 

Sophia is looking from her book to Carl again. Daryl just closes his eyes and tries to get back to that quiet calm from earlier. It's not possible with Carl Grimes there. Which is fair - Carl Grimes is a handful, even Daryl had noticed that. And the kid looks lost and confused and drooping compared to the kid who was bouncing around this morning, ready to learn to shoot. But he doesn't know how to fix that. He doesn't even know how to try. So Daryl just closes his eyes and hopes that being able to sit somewhere and be miserable was enough for him.

"Your mom told you about Louis? Right?"  
  
Apparently it wasn't. Daryl feels Sophia still next to him. Doesn't open his eyes - they probably don't want to hear from him anyway, not when his brother had been such a dick to all the Morales'. 

"Yeah," Sophia says quietly. "He - it was really him?"  
  
"Yeah."

A pause.   
  
"But Eliza wasn't there. Or Miranda or Juan."  
  
It takes longer than it should for Daryl to figure out those are the Morales parents names. 

"Do you - do you think they're dead too?" Sophia asks.

"No," Carl says quickly. "No. If they were, they'd be in the barn with him. Right?"  
  
Daryl's not sure that thinking tracks but he doesn't say anything. Wouldn't be helpful anyway. 

"Are they - what are they going to do with him?"  
  
"Bury him," Carl says. "Glenn and T-Dog are digging holes. For him and for like Hershel's wife and stuff. They were in the barn too."

It's quiet then, miserable and heavy, and now it doesn't seem like Carl has any desire to break it. The rocker starts to move again, slower and quieter than last time, and Daryl lets it happen. No point yelling about it. 

After a long moment, Daryl can hear the pages of the book being turned. 

"Chapter Four. Christmas. Christmas was coming. The little log house - was almost buried in snow. Great drifts were banked - against the walls and windows. And in the morning when Pa - opened the door, there was a wall of snow - as high as Laura's head."  
  
Sophia's an okay reader - not as good as her ma, a little stilted or whatever. But the Grimes kid isn't complaining, and Daryl isn't either. 

"Pa took the shovel - and shoveled it away, and then he shoveled - a path to the barn, where the horses and the cows - were snug and warm in their stalls.The days - were clear and bright. Laura and Mary stood - on chairs by the window and looked out across the glittering snow at the glittering trees. Snow was - piled all along their bare, dark branches, and it sparkled - in the sunshine. Icicles hung from the eaves - of the house to the snowbanks, great icicles as large - at the top as Laura's arm. They were like glass and full of sharp lights."

Daryl feels himself drifting and lets it happen. He falls asleep and he dreams of rooms of glass and sparkling lights. 


	11. Trigger

It's not as peaceful when Daryl floats back to consciousness this time. There's an edge to the air, more than just whatever was leftover from the shit that went down at the barn. Something more immediate, more frantic. 

"Rick - not back yet?"  
  
" - Hershel - Beth -"

"Holed up somewhere for the night - first thing in the morning." 

But those are adult voices. When Daryl opens his eyes, his only company is still just Carl and Sophia. Sophia is still propped up against the headboard next to him but Carl has abandoned the rocker and is squeezed in next to Sophia at the head of the bed, the book they were reading open in between them. Carl misses the glare Daryl gives him for encroaching on Daryl's space because Carl is staring at the door to the hallway, where the voices are coming from, and is biting his lip. Sophia looks worried too. So Daryl figures he won't yell at the kids that this isn't a goddamn slumber party or whatever, at least until he figures out what has the two of them looking so spooked.

"What's goin' on?" Daryl croaks, and Sophia and Carl jump. Like they'd forgotten he was there, or that he could wake up.   
  
"Um," Sophia says, darting a quick look at Carl, whose jaw is set. "Hershel - Hershel left and Beth won't wake up, so -" Sophia shrugs her shoulders. "Um, I guess Mr. Glenn and Rick went to find him?"  
  
Oh. That's why the kid looks like his puppy ran away. Daryl guesses in a way, it did.   
  
"They're not back yet," Carl says. His face looks like he's trying to be tough, but there's a slight waver in his voice. "And it's getting dark."  
  
Shit. How long has Daryl been out for? How much more sleep could he possibly need?   
  
The one good thing about all that sleep is that Daryl actually does feel better. Not just not-dead, but actually better. Sure he's not ready to do another three day slog through the woods or whatever, but he's well enough to get up and figure out what's happening from someone who actually knows what's going on. Like what does that mean, Beth won't wake up? He stifles a groan as he sits up in bed, and Sophia jerks as he does, looking over at his with alarmed eyes.   
  
"What are you doing?" she asks, and Daryl grunts as he maneuvers himself up enough that he could swing his feet off the bed onto the floor.   
  
"Gonna go find out what's up," Daryl says, and Sophia looks concerned.

"But - you're still sick. You shouldn't -"  
  
"M'fine," Daryl says, and he's about to stand up when Shane fucking Walsh pokes his head in and Daryl feels himself go immediately hostile. Maybe he'll risk trying to walk with just Sophia and Carl for an audience, but he's not going to attempt to stand and potentially fall flat on his face in front of Shane.   
  
"Hey man, where you been all afternoon?" Shane asks, his voice the weirdly genial tone he always takes with Carl. Daryl guesses that's how you're meant to talk to kids, because Carl just looks at Shane and Daryl can see some of the worry drain away. Not all of it, but enough.   
  
"Just hanging out," Carl says. "Are they back yet?"  
  
"No, man, not yet. Keep your head up though. Your old man is the toughest - " Shane catches sight of Sophia, still sitting next to Daryl, and he cuts himself off. "Toughest son of a gun I know. He'll be all right."   
  
Carl nods, just once. His fingers are playing with the brim of his sheriff's hat, with the tassels.   
  
"How you doin', Sophia? All right?"   
  
"Yes sir," Sophia says politely. Daryl feels his scowl deepening. Remembers Shane the other day, before he went out on that horse. _Anyone could have holed up in that farmhouse._ Shane hadn't been wrong - Sophia hadn't been there. But it'd been the way Shane had said it. Like he was looking for reasons to stop looking.   
  
Shane woulda given up on the kid, and now he's treating her all sweet, like he cares. He doesn't. Daryl knows that. And he wonders, from her tone, from the way she's holding herself, if somehow Sophia knows it too. 

"What about you Daryl? You good?"  
  
Daryl just grunts. Shane looks a little put off with Daryl's hostility, which makes Daryl's chin jut out more. What does Shane want from him? High fives and hugs? If they were outside, Daryl would spit.  
  
"Well, uh. Right. I'll get these kids out of your hair, then," Shane says, and Daryl scowls more at that. Like sure, he'd rather have some space or whatever, but where does Shane get off saying that shit? Making it sound like Sophia's a nuisance or whatever? "It's just about time for supper. Carl, why don't you get your ma and then you and Sophia can help Patricia set the table?"  
  
Daryl's about to ask Shane how Sophia's meant to do that on crutches when he notices that Carl isn't moving. Whatever worry Shane's presence might have eased is back tripled and Carl is too still as he looks at Shane - like he's trying to decide if he should use his energy to freak out of not. 

"I - I thought Mom was downstairs. With you."  
  
Something about 'with you' hits Shane weird - which is just another piece in the picture Daryl has of what the fuck Shane and Lori got up to back at the quarry. "No," Shane says. "She ain't with me. What, you mean you don't know where she is?"  
  
"I - no," Carl says. "I - I've been up here. I -"  
  
Shane is out of the room too fast. Carl is up from the edge of the bed, gaping like a fish, like he's not sure whether he should follow Shane or stay put. He looks at Daryl, which Daryl doesn't get because he knows even less than Carl. He didn't even know Rick and Glenn and Hershel were missing, let alone Lori. 

"Where'd you see her last?" Daryl asks, sounding dumb even to his own ears. He ain't a cop and Lori ain't a misplaced pair of keys. He doesn't know what he's meant to do to find some grown woman who went running off of her own accord.   
  
"I - we were outside and she said she was going to go check on T-Dog, because he was - " Carl darts a quick look at Sophia. "You know. Burning the walkers. The ones we didn't know. And she said maybe Sophia would like company and I should go ask Carol where she was and I did and she said she was up here so I came up here and then -"  
  
Great. Now Daryl's all caught up. "Why'd she wanna go see T-Dog?"  
  
Carl shrugs. Great. That's useful. A bucket of clues, right there. 

There's not time for anymore detective work because then Shane is barreling back into the room so fast that Sophia flinches practically off the bed and it takes all Daryl's reflexes just to yank her back up.   
  
"Carl," Shane is saying urgently, moving too quick - Daryl had grabbed Sophia's elbow to keep her from falling and even though he lets go as fast as he can, he can still feel the tremble working it's way up her arm, almost unnoticeable but present as Shane rushes in like a fucking panther, all muscled arms and bald head and too intent face. Daryl can hear more footsteps following Shane and he wonders how crowded his sick room is going to get. "When's the last time you saw your mom?"  
  
"This afternoon," Carl says. His face, which was pale already, suddenly looks the color of milk.   
  
"Where was she?" Shane asks, and his voice gets louder. Daryl doesn't know what to do with the slightly shaking girl at his side. He doesn't know how to make her stop shaking.   
  
"What you yellin' for?" Daryl snaps, shifting his position on the bed so he can stand up if he needs to. His hand braced at the side table for an easy support. "Shit man, chill out, you're -"  
  
"Where was she?" Shane says again, and he's moving on Carl too fast, it makes everything in Daryl prickle. He's shifted himself at an angle that he only realizes later is putting himself between Shane and Sophia, between the unpredictable wildness radiating off of Shane and the shaky silence of the girl. 

"She -" Carl looks confused and too pale, like he can't think. "She said - she was going to see T-Dog, she -"  
  
"Carl ain't seen her," Shane calls out to the hallway, and he paces back and forth. Daryl can feel Sophia next to him, winding tighter and tighter, too tight as she tries to track Shane with her eyes. Shane slams his hand against the window sill loud enough that Daryl's pulling himself off the bed. Because this is his goddamn sickroom and if Shane's going to slam around like a fucking lunatic he can go do it somewhere else. "Damn it!" explodes out of Shane's mouth as Shane looks out the window, eyes scanning like Lori Grimes is going to pop out of a well or something. He's so preoccupied looking he doesn't hear Daryl come up, or maybe he just assumes Daryl isn't a threat. But Shane doesn't spin back around until Daryl is almost on top of him. Shane blinks once, maybe in surprise, but Daryl's already poking him in the chest with one finger, feeling wobbly as he tries to shove some sense into Shane.   
  
"Calm the fuck down," Daryl snarls, and Shane's eyes go from surprised to angry in record time. "You're freaking them kids out, man, shit -"  
  
"We need to find Lori," Shane says.   
  
"She asked me to look in on Carl," Andrea says suddenly from behind Daryl. The others have caught up and are spilling in, making the room feel even more crowded - Dale who looks worried and winded from the stairs, Andrea looking concerned, T-Dog looking wracked with guilt. Carol, who has gone to the bed, to Sophia, a hand on her back. "Earlier. She was worried about Rick, she -"  
  
"She went after them?" Dale asks, and Daryl sees the hallway behind them fill up more - Glenn's horse girl looking pinched behind the eyes, Otis's woman with a hand over her mouth. It's too many people and Daryl feels himself start to tighten, feels his fists clench.   
  
"She didn't say that," Andrea says, and Carl is standing in the middle of the room, looking pathetically fierce with his dumb sheriff hat.   
  
"Where is she?!" Carl asks again, his voice shrill with anger and panic, and something shifts in Shane. Something like guilt behind the eyes.   
  
"Nobody panic," Shane says, which Daryl thinks is a little fucking late when Shane looks halfway to hell himself. "Gonna be around here somewhere. Come on."   
  
And Shane is charging out of the room again, moving fast enough Daryl almost topples in his wake, and the room is empty as suddenly as it was full. Carl is almost running to keep up with the adults as they spread out in the weirdest and most demented game of hide and seek through the Greene farmhouse. The only one left behind is Carol, who is running a hand over Sophia's hair. She's like a horse whisperer or something because the second she does, whatever has been making Sophia clench melts away, like Carol is gathering it up in her hand and flicking it off of her.   
  
Of course, the room emptying out of one shouting Shane Walsh and eight hundred bystanders probably helped with that too. 

"What's going on?" Daryl asks gruffly. He's pretty proud of himself that he didn't just say 'the fuck', which is probably pretty pathetic.   
  
Carol huffs a laugh with no humor in it. "What else? Just - everything." This is less than specific, but also Daryl figures that's pretty clear. Things are going to shit again. They always do and he guesses the apocalypse ain't no different. Carol is eyeing him carefully as he tries to make his way back to the bed. "You shouldn't be -"  
  
"M'fine," Daryl says for what feels like the millionth time. "Been sleepin'. Ask the kid."   
  
Carol actually does turn to Sophia, who nods, but then shakes her head. Daryl's about to ask what the fuck that means but Carol is already on her way over to him, looking like she's steeling herself for something. He's not sure if she's preparing herself to touch him or if she's preparing for him to cuss her out, but either way it makes him still and scowl.   
  
"M'fine, I said," Daryl repeats, and instead of trying to fight his way back to the bed, he collapses into the rocker so he won't have to have some mouse of a woman drag him back to bed. Collapsing probably isn't the best plan - it sets the rocker swinging wildly - but he's down and that seems to pacify Carol enough. Daryl's side is throbbing but nothing crazy, nothing he can't handle. And his head hurts, but that could be from Shane shouting like a goddamn lunatic. All in all, he's pretty much fighting fit.   
  
Although the second he settles, he realizes something. All of a sudden it feels like days since he's gone to the bathroom. He feels a flush working it's way over his face - blushing like some ten year old girl, pathetic - because it probably hasn't been days since he's gone. When he was out of it, somebody has probably gotten closer than he would have wanted, to help him - 

Whatever. It's done now. But all of a sudden Daryl has to piss like crazy and he starts hauling himself up out of the chair, which would be easier if it wasn't a rocker, if it didn't swing and squeal underneath him as he tries to get up.   
  
"Gotta take a piss," Daryl grunts, eyes skirting away from Sophia, reminded suddenly of the way she'd act when they were in the woods, stiff and watchful and scared of him when he offered to keep watch while she peed. He hears Carol getting up and his jaw sets in a scowl. "Be back."  
  
Daryl gets out of the room before Carol follows him. Which is probably just her being polite because he's moving like an eighty year old who got thrown from a horse so it's not like it'd be hard to catch him. It's probably for the best that she follows him anyway - he has no clue where the bathroom is in this place. He forces himself to walk like nothing hurts, not to stagger. Not to let anything past him. He's not hurt that badly. The shakiness, the lurchiness of his steps, it's probably because he's been in that goddamn bed for days. (How many days? How long has it been since they got back?)   
  
"Don't need a babysitter," Daryl snarls as Carol comes up beside him, her hand hovering near his arm.   
  
"I know," Carol says, her hand never making contact, her voice even. "It's at the end of the hall."

* * *

After taking care of business, Daryl washes up some in the sink. He looks like hell when he sees himself in the mirror - a layer of grime that's mostly dirt but probably also blood sticking out against the almost blinding white of the bandage around his forehead, the stupid shirt Carol'd leant him puckered and sagging in weird places. Someone'd probably wiped him down while he was out too, which makes him feel on edge, but they hadn't done that great a job and so Daryl cleans up how he can. He almost strips off the bandage to see the damage to his head - with his luck he's got a big gnarly scar over his ear from that fucking bullet - but he decides not to. It's not worth it when Carol or the kid'll just get all on him for messing with it.   
  
Even Hershel's bathroom, small and probably a hundred years old, is nicer than any bathroom Daryl's been in his whole life.   
  
He's not as surprised as he should be that Carol is standing there in the hallway when he opens the door.   
  
"Don't worry," she says, a ghost of a smile around her mouth. "I wasn't listening."  
  
It makes Daryl flush again, scowl. He feels steadier after pissing, after washing up. More alert, more awake. Less shaky. He doesn't need Carol trailing after him like he's her kid. He doesn't need anything from Carol. He hadn't brought Sophia back so he'd have a guaranteed bathroom escort for the rest of his life. Carol doesn't owe him shit.   
  
"Hold up," Carol says as Daryl starts past her to the bedroom. He glares.   
  
"Can walk fine," Daryl snaps. "Shit, you wanna baby someone, baby that kid of yours, she -"  
  
"No, I just -" Carol looks a little unsure. "I just thought you might - I can talk a little more about. What's happening. I just didn't want Sophia to hear."  
  
Oh. That's different. Daryl feels his scowl lessen, feels the flush on his face creep a little.   
  
"Oh," Daryl says lamely. He leans against the opposite wall from Carol, crosses his arms. Waits.   
  
"It's - sorry," Carol says, her voice a little nervous. "I shouldn't be making - it's not a big deal. Just Sophia gets nervous around - " Carol shakes her head. "Hershel went to find a bar. In town. After what happened, he -"  
  
Oh. Daryl remembers Sophia's pinched face when she'd seen the bottle of bourbon in the abandoned farmhouse. Her fear when she told him she'd dumped it down the toilet. Yeah, whatever, maybe she doesn't have to freak Sophia out. Maybe Sophia's too young to understand that not everybody drinks like her old man.   
  
But hell, maybe Daryl still doesn't totally understand that either because he finds himself thinking about Hershel. Daryl hadn't pegged Hershel for the type, which makes him feel stupid. He tried to reconcile the staid man in suspenders with his pa or Merle or even Daryl himself and he can't. Well, there's all kinds of drunks. He should remember that.   
  
"Shit, he couldn't just do that here?" 

"He doesn't keep it in the house."   
  
Oh. That type of drunk. Reformed or whatever. Off the wagon now. Got it.   
  
"After he left, Beth - they're not really sure what's wrong. She just - isn't responding." Carol looks worried at that. Daryl doesn't know shit about Beth, just that she's little and blonde and looks barely older than Sophia, but he frowns anyway as Carol continues.   
  
"Rick and Glenn went to go get him, but -"  
  
"But they ain't back yet."  
  
"Right." Carol shrugs and it looks weird on her. That's his movement. It looks wrong on her slim, graceful shoulders. "I shouldn't have - I could have said that in front of Sophia. Just, she likes Beth, and I don't want her to be -"  
  
Scared of what it means, that Beth isn't responding. Scared of Hershel. Yeah. Daryl gets it.   
  
"Think Lori went after 'em?" Daryl asks her, and Carol bites her lip, looks worried. Daryl's reminded that Lori's probably the closest thing Carol's had to a friend in years. 

"I don't know. She was worried, I know that. But I didn't think she'd leave Carl." 

Lori Grimes probably thought she was invincible, that nothing bad was ever gonna happen to her. Daryl knows she's wrong.   
  
"Can go after her in the morning," Daryl says finally. Carol's eyes are boring into him all of a sudden and he looks away. "Mean - m'feelin' better, I told you. By tomorrow, probably be back to normal. Can go out then, if she ain't back yet."   
  
"Daryl -"  
  
What - does she think he should go out now? He thinks about it but in the dark he won't be able to pick up a trail anyway, especially if she took a car, and he's not all the way there yet. But by morning he will be.   
  
"You don't have to do that."  
  
Daryl scowls. "Told you, I'm fine. Had worse'n this." He's not sure if this was true - maybe before the infection set in, but he can't remember a time when he'd been this wiped out, all that sleep and fuzziness. Maybe when he was a little kid or something.  
  
"Shane can go. Or T-Dog. Or Andrea. You - you've done enough for now."   
  
Daryl blinks at her. T-Dog and Andrea aren't trackers. Maybe Shane knows some police shit but that's concrete and cars, it ain't the woods, the wilderness. Not that Hershel's really in the wilderness if he's really holed up in some old bar downtown - 

"She's probably just in Senoia. She probably found Rick and them and they'll all be back in the morning," Carol continues.  
  
Daryl scoffs. Yeah. Because Rick and Hershel and Glenn just decided they were having so much fun at whatever hick watering hole they got in Senoia they decided to pull an all-nighter - 

Something is stirring in his head. Senoia. That's important, for some reason, that means something, but he can't remember -

"Ain't no invalid," Daryl says instead. "Can pull my weight."  
  
"You've pulled more than your weight," Carol says, and she sounds almost fierce, almost like she's yelling at him. Or whatever the mousy mom version of yelling is. "You - you don't have to keep trying to prove to them that you're worth something."  
  
Daryl stares at her. The fuck?   
  
"That ain't - I ain't doing that," Daryl mumbles, but he feels suddenly exposed and small, which makes him feel angry, as it has since he was a kid. The fuck does she know? She thinks since he did her a solid the others are suddenly all happy to have some redneck fuck in their little group? Think they'll think he's worth a damn? Daryl's seen the way Rick and Shane look at him, how Andrea does, the hint of distaste around Dale's mouth when he hears Daryl speak. "Ain't my fault the rest of 'em can't do shit," Daryl says with more force. "They try'n find her it's just gonna be some other person off lost, needin' a rescue, and then -"  
  
"Then we deal with that then," Carol says. And why the fuck is she saying 'we', like they're some kind of team? But suddenly Carol seems to realize what she's said too, or maybe just the way she's been saying it, because the almost-yelling stops and she's a quiet mouse again, looking at him with a mostly blank but nervous face.   
  
"She'll probably be back by morning," Carol says instead, softly. "They all will be. Probably."  
  
Yeah. Right. Probably. 

* * *

They run into Otis' woman, Patricia or whatever, as they head back into the sickroom. She's helping Sophia onto her crutches, and she shoots a smile, forced, at Carol as they come in.   
  
"There you are. Well, dinner was ready when we realized that - just, no point in wasting a meal." Her tone is more forced than her fake smile. Carol blinks.   
  
"Oh. Are you sure? We don't - "  
  
"It was all made already," Patricia says again. "Mr. Walsh -" Her mouth puckers at that and Daryl wonders if Patricia is suspicious of what happened to Otis too. If she'd known it was her husband's gun Shane brought back with him. "Mr. Walsh has gone to get Lori and I figured no point just letting it all go cold."  
  
She makes it sound like Shane has just run to the north pasture to fetch Lori for dinner instead of him going off in the dark by himself to a town infested with walkers and who knows what else. Daryl can't tell if she's trying to make it sound that way for Sophia and Carl or for herself. Who it is she's trying not to worry.   
  
"If you're feeling well enough -" Now she's looking at Daryl, and Daryl doesn't know if he's ever said two words to this lady before now. "If you'd like to join us in the dining room, or - " She looks suddenly uncertain. "Or I could just fix you up a plate. It's no bother, you should rest -"  
  
"M'fine," Daryl says immediately. Because he is fine. And the dining room is probably the closest he can expect to getting outside. From there he could probably get back to his tent for the night, if he timed it right. Get his bow, maybe snag a rifle from the gun bag in Dale's RV. Because Daryl is suddenly aware of how vulnerable they are, a house of women and children and invalids. T-Dog is the only man left in fighting shape, and Andrea's a good shot (good enough, the scar on his head complains) but suddenly Daryl is remembering that walkers aren't the only thing they have to worry about. Him and Andrea and T-Dog and what, fucking Dale, with a house full of people to protect and who knows how many people out there like Max and Greg and Randall, and who knows how close they are.   
  
But he doesn't say this in front of the others because it will do nothing but worry them, frighten them, and that won't make them any better prepared. Maybe he shouldn't judge Patrica so hard for her fake smile and her pretend cheer. 

"I can go down to dinner," Daryl says when Patricia looks unsure. "Ain't - 'bout ready to be out of bed, anyway."  
  
Patricia looks at Carol - which makes Daryl scowl because Carol isn't his nurse or his keeper or any of that shit. If he decides he's ready to go downstairs, then he's ready. No one to check with but him. But whatever Patricia sees in Carol's face, she just says "All right, then. Sophia, sweetheart, you want to lead the way?"  
  


* * *

It's only after they're all seated at the fancy ass table that Daryl realizes that maybe signing on for a whole dinner was a bad idea. 

Everyone is tense and unhappy and just as clearly pretending that they aren't for Carl, who is sitting in the middle of the table next to an empty place, probably set for his mama. His hat is on his head but as she passes, Patricia taps the brim and says "No hats at the table!" and Carl takes it off without any fuss.   
  
Somehow Daryl ends up between Dale and Andrea. Which he thinks is weird as shit, and then he wonders why he thinks that, why he assumed that he'd be sandwiched between Carol and Sophia. Dale takes his hat off too, winking at Carl as he does so, but Daryl doesn't get why everyone is faking normalcy when both that boy's parents and his weird uncle/the guy fucking his mom are out in the dark somewhere without him. The others start passing around food in some sort of system that probably makes sense to them but Daryl doesn't understand, a crisscrossing of plates and serving spoons and shit he's never seen before in his life, on old china with heavy silver cutlery.   
  
Daryl spent most of his childhood eating off of paper plates and shitty dishes from the dollar store and as an adult he hadn't done much different. Sometimes him and Merle would go to a diner but the waitresses just brought him the whole plate already made up. Daryl's sure there are some rules or manners to this that he just doesn't get. He finds himself watching Sophia, seated across the table from him. He wonders if she can tell he doesn't know what the fuck is going on or if she's just always deliberate with her movements, but she moves slow enough that he could copy. Dishing out a spoonful of peas (Carol leaning over and spooning a little bit more onto her plate, Sophia shooting her mom a quick, guilty grin), picking up a chicken leg with fancy tongs, a scoop of something that could be mashed potatoes, a slice of bread with a tiny, perfect pat of butter. 

Daryl mimics her to the extent that he can - he's too hungry not to take more of everything, and he picks up his chicken with his hands to eat it because isn't that what chicken bones are for? Something to hold onto? What's with all this messing around with forks and knives and shit? He tries to eat slow though - he knows his manners are shit and normally it doesn't matter but it feels different here, in this dining room with a table probably older than his dad's hunting cabin. 

But it makes him nervous, all this shit, people trying to force chatter as they eat dainty spoonfuls, Carl pushing his food around his plate and looking at the window every two seconds, Glenn's horse girl stealing looks up the stairs where her sister is, Patricia trying to talk normally but her voice too high and shrill and sometimes breaking when Otis comes up, which he seems to do every two seconds. (Who cares if Otis loved mashed potatoes?) It's making Daryl feel antsy and on edge, makes him keep checking over his own shoulder like something's coming.

Finally, he can't take it anymore and he stands up. His chair legs screech and squeal as they push against the floor and all other noise stops, everyone looking at him in a way that makes his shoulders hunch up under his ears, makes him scowl. He hates it when people look at him like that. Fuck them.   
  
"M'gonna - just need to get something," Daryl mumbles, and he slips away from the table as quick as he can without looking at any of them. 

It's cool outside, a Georgia evening, the hum of cicadas. The stars are bright in the sky, probably would have been even without the rest of the world being dark. Daryl frowns a second, there on the porch, lit up in the night sky. Ain't smart. That light's gotta be a beacon to anybody who sees it, a big pointing arrow to anyone whose looking for a nice place to stay. Need blackout curtains or some shit, a light curfew. Daryl fishes around in his pocket, hoping to find a crushed up cigarette or just something - his yearning for nicotine is fierce in that moment. He's about to hop off the porch and head for his tent - get his fucking bow at least, and maybe there's a pack of cigarettes squirreled away somewhere that he's forgot about. (Not very likely.) But behind him the screen door slams again, making him jump, and he's ready to bite Carol's head off when he sees it isn't Carol. 

Instead Andrea is standing there, his still full plate in her hands and an uncertain expression on her face. 

"I - sorry. I just thought you might still be hungry." She proffers the plate. Daryl's not sure whether to be pissed that she followed him out here, that she thought he was rude enough or stupid enough not to eat every thing given to him, or to just be glad that he can finish eating out here and not have to deal with the fucking noise and chatter of the others. 

Daryl takes the plate from her with a grunt. He doesn't have to figure out how he feels about her doing it. He can just take advantage and fucking eat. 

He's swiping his drumstick through a swirl of mashed potatoes when Andrea clears her throat. Daryl doesn't stop eating - not much can stop him from eating - but he scowls, feels his shoulders tense. She gonna give him shit for how he eats? He remembers one of the lunchroom monitors, when he was a kid, telling him he ate like an animal and making him sit in a corner til his manners improved. Bitch. Andrea tries that, he'll -   
  
"I - I just wanted to - I'm so sorry. I feel like shit," Andrea says finally. Her voice is firm and frank and he finds himself respecting her a little more.   
  
"You'n me both," Daryl grunts, and he picks up his chicken again and takes a huge bite. 

"I - I don't expect you to forgive me -"

Daryl looks up at her. "Fucking right I won't."

Andrea's face sinks. She nods, once. But Daryl's not done. 

"You fire near that girl again, I'll getcha through the eye before y'even have a chance to miss."

Andrea blinks. Looks like she's trying to do some math in her head. "I - I'm sorry, I don't - I don't expect you to forgive me for - for shooting you -"  
  
Now Daryl's the one trying to make an equation make sense. "Why?" Daryl says, his brow furrowed. "You were tryin' to protect the group. We're good."

Andrea nods again, now looking completely lost. "Oh. So. If you're not upset about that, what -"  
  
"You coulda killed Sophia," Daryl says, and Andrea's face does something strange. Daryl doesn't know how to interpret it and he doesn't even try. "Whatever, you got that gun, don't mean you can just fire without using your damn eyes. What if she'd been in front? Or what if she'd made it back without me and you tried to clip her instead?"   
  
"I wouldn't," Andrea says. "Or I mean, I won't. You're right. I should - I'll be more careful." It sounds like it costs Andrea something to say this, but when Daryl looks at her she looks nothing but sincere. "You did good, Daryl. And I really am sorry."   
  
Daryl scoffs - he didn't do it for her, and he doesn't know what else he's meant to do with these words from everyone. Andrea nods again, then hovers awkwardly. "All right. If there's anything I can do -"

"Got a cigarette?" Daryl asks, and Andrea shakes her head regretfully.   
  
"No. I could ask around -"  
  
"Whatever," Daryl says. He gets up, stretches a little - he's gonna try and dart out to his tent real quick, get his bow, grab Merle's gun from the bike saddlebag. Just in case. Worth having. But as he's about to hop off the porch something happens that makes him pick up speed, makes it less of an amble and more of a sprint, his side protesting. 

"Daryl?" he hears Andrea saying, but she stops talking to him when she sees what he sees. The screen door slams again so he's guessing that she's inside telling the others. 

Leaving Daryl to keep his eye on the two little pinpricks of headlights, bumping their way down the unpaved driveway.


	12. Morning Noon and Night

Well. That didn't go like how he thought. 

Daryl's lucky the headlights are just Shane and Lori, because if they'd belonged to someone hostile he wouldn't have been out in nearly enough time to get everyone safe. And like fucking idiots the others all come running when Andrea tells them there's a car coming - even Carl and Sophia, Sophia hanging on the porch with her crutch, Carl in his stupid hat, the two of them lit from behind with the light from the house. 

Daryl finds his bow neatly laid across his pillow like Glenn was some demented Santa or something and Merle's gun is in the saddlebags where he left it. But even with shit left out for him to find, Daryl's too slow to get back there before the car doors are slamming and Lori Grimes is on the case. 

"Where's Rick?" Daryl hears as he trudges back up, his side twinging with each step, especially with the weight of the bow pulling across his back. Shane, his shaved head glinting in the low light, is walking away from Lori, his shoulders braced. Daryl can see the moment Lori figures it out. "They're not back? Where are they?"  
  
"Look," Shane says, in the voice that is clearly his 'trying to keep everybody calm' voice but he's shit at it compared to Rick, because the second he starts talking everyone tenses up, Dale and Andrea looking at Shane, Carol looking over Lori, the blood trickling down Lori's forehead. "I had to get you back here."

"You asshole." Lori is beating against Shane's chest, and Daryl can see Sophia on the porch, shrinking back. It makes him pick up his pace some - sure he's pretty useless all beat up like this, but he thinks he can separate Lori Grimes and Shane Fucking Walsh. 

"I gotta look after you, I gotta make sure the baby is all right, okay?"

It'd almost be funny, how the tensed up shoulders of everybody go even tighter, the way that everyone is staring at Lori or Shane or both of them. T-Dog is back and forth between them like a cartoon character stuck in an endless double take. 

Daryl's not sure if it's more or less funny when Carl Grimes, his brow furrowed under his dumbass hat, goes "You're having a baby? Why didn't you tell me?"

That's the cue Daryl takes to get the hell out of dodge. 

He contemplates turning right back around and going right back to his tent, but his body is throbbing with just his little sprint down there and the idea of sleeping on the ground just makes it kick up more. Plus, he tells himself, Carol and them would probably hunt him down out there, give him hell for not staying put, chase him around with pills and such. He doesn't want to deal with anymore of that shit than he has to. Might as well just stay put.   
  
And if he falls back on the bed in his sickroom with a little extra relief, well. No one's there to see it. 

Sophia creeps in a little while after him - Daryl feels a twinge of guilt as she hobbles in. He hadn't even waited to see if she'd need a hand. Did she have to make her own way up those stairs?

"Shouldn't push your ankle," Daryl mumbles as she limps in, drops on the rocker with almost as much weight as he'd fallen to the bed. "Where's your ma?" 

"She's - helping Lori." One of Sophia's hands ghosts over her face - the lip Lori busted, the shadow of a bruise that had been blooming around her forehead.   
  
Yeah. With Hershel gone, guess Carol's the closest they got to a medic. Well, better her than him. 

Daryl grunts as he pulls his bow off his back. It's still spattered with mud and grime from their trek through the woods, and Glenn left the thing cocked. Daryl uncocks it, runs his fingers over it. He's been taking care of bows since he was a little kid, even before Uncle Jess bought him his first one. He'd looked after his dad's before that and so the act of maintenance is something easy, something he falls into as easy as breathing. It's a different kind of centering to put his hands on the bow, to clear around the cams, the stock, check the trigger box for dirt and debris. He dips the end of one of the pillowcases into the pitcher of water next to his bed and starts to wipe the whole thing down, clear it off. He's wondering if he should take the time now to run wax over everything and oil it up - he's got a thing of string wax and a half used bottle of flight and rail lube, which Merle could never look at without sniggering - when he realizes that Sophia is watching him with as much care as he watched her at dinner. Like she's taking notes in her head, trying to figure out how it all works.   
  
"Here," Daryl grunts, before he can think better of it. He shoves the bow out towards her - carefully, even though it's not strung or cocked and the bolts are halfway across the room. Doesn't hurt to show her how to treat something like a threat. "Hold that."   
  
Sophia takes it hesitantly, but not as hesitantly as she was out in the woods. Daryl looks around in the saddlebag he grabbed from his tent for the string wax. First he's double checking there ain't nothing in there that shouldn't be - Merle normally kept his stash in with his stuff, but it's not like Merle was the height of tidiness, and Daryl's not gonna pull out a thing of meth in front of the kid. All he sees is his own shit though, extra string and cables for the bow, the rail lube, the little tool set, some shit for camping. Finally the wax comes up. He'll be out of it soon - he wonders idly if there's a hunting store somewhere in town, get him some gear. Some more bolts. He looks at Sophia, at the enormous bow in her twiglike arms. She'd do better with a compound bow, maybe something like fifteen or twenty pounds draw weight. He squints a little, tries to picture it.   
  
"Here," Daryl says, and he hands her the pillowcase, still damp. "Make sure there ain't nothin' dirty left on it. Then we'll oil it up so it don't snag."  
  
Sophia starts obediently. Daryl watches for a second, then starts to wax the string. It means they're sitting practically side by side on the bed, but it doesn't feel weird. Just feels like company. Daryl's not sure he's ever had company like that - Merle was company, sure, but loud as hell. He'd never just sit quiet with Daryl, each to their own thoughts. Merle didn't work that way. 

Still, it's a little pang of something in his chest when he thinks of Merle next to him, a beer in his hand, rambling on about Mexicans or Democrats or the illuminati or whatever he was het up about that week. 

"You're good at that," Sophia says softly after a while, and Daryl scoffs before he can stop himself. 

"Ain't much to be good at. Been doin' it since I was smaller'n you, that's all." 

"I don't know how to do anything like that." 

Daryl snorts. Holds out the tube of wax. "Here."  
  
Sophia looks at him nervously, like he's trying to trick her, and she takes the tube. Holds it awkwardly between her fingers. Daryl waits her out. She was watching him do it - she knows what to do. After a long moment, she starts to slide the wax over the string.

"Not on the servings - there," Daryl says, pointing to the center serving. Sophia starts a little but she doesn't stop or anything, just skirts around the servings. "Not in the middle. You do that, wax gets in the trigger box, could jam." She's a little wobbly, but it's wax - ain't gonna hurt anything.   
  
"I - how'd you learn about all this stuff?" Sophia asks. She sounds shy. Daryl feels his shoulders tense a little, but he just shrugs them, starts hunting around in his stuff for the rail oil. He can talk about learning on the bow, that's fine. That's easy. But from Daryl's experience, questions never stop at one and he's not sure where the kid is trying to go with this. 

"Used to hunt. My brother'n me, when we were kids. Our old man taught us." About the only useful thing the old man had ever done. Merle'd given it up after he came back from the army - once he knew he'd have three squares a day and get to shoot with live ammo, bagging a squirrel must have seemed like nothing. Maybe he just didn't want to remember anything he'd gotten from their pop. He'd go out to the woods with Daryl every so often and stomp around, but Merle'd forgotten almost everything useful. It's Daryl who remembered.   
  
Sophia inhales for another question and Daryl gives the bowstring and the cables one last once over. "Good," Daryl says. "Lay off that now." Daryl find the bottle and puts two drips of the oil onto the sides of the rail. "Then we just spread this around." Daryl demonstrates, then watches as Sophia copies. "Yeah, good." Daryl leaves her to that, then starts to grease some of the weirder places - behind the safety knobs on the trigger box, the cams, the axles. He wants this thing running like brand new if he has to go look for Rick and them tomorrow.   
  
"Did - " Sophia starts asking, her eyes fixed on the bow, but whatever she's going to ask never makes it out of her mouth. She slams her mouth shut instead. Daryl's a little surprised he doesn't hear her teeth click. He waits her out again, though. Maybe that's the secret to Sophia - just got to wait her out.   
  
"Would - would you - teach me? How to -" Sophia shuts up again, her shoulders automatically curling in. "Or - I mean, never mind."  
  
"Teaching you now, ain't I?" Daryl says. He takes the bow from her, gently. Hefts it around. "Good."  
  
Sophia nods. Looks a little deflated. Why? What'd he - oh.   
  
"Maybe, uh - maybe we could go out back, do some target shooting sometime. If you were interested." Sophia perks right up and Daryl feels something almost like pride lick through him - he hadn't thought he'd guess right.   
  
"I - really? You'd show me?"  
  
"Guess I'd better," Daryl says as he finds a spot to put the bow for the night. "If we get stuck out there again, better if y'know how to take care of yourself." For a second Daryl wonders if that's the wrong thing to say - it's certainly not all the way right. Sophia's taken care of herself for twelve years already, through plenty of shit. But Daryl's never been good with words so he leaves it be.   
  
And Sophia doesn't seem to mind. She's smiling shyly at him, looking at the bow leaning against the side of the bed. "Y'can be like - uh - your book girl," Daryl says, and the little smile around her lips splits into an honest to god grin.   
  
"Katniss," Sophia says. "Yeah. Maybe." 

There's a knock on the doorway and Carol is there, leaning in the open doorjamb. She's smiling too and Daryl wonders how much she heard.   
  
"Hey kiddo," Carol says. "Time to get ready for bed."   
  
Sophia looks a little indignant. "It's not that late."  
  
"Late enough. You can read a little longer once you're all ready. Come on."  
  
Sophia heaves a sigh and reaches for her crutches. Carol's there, moving the crutches closer to her, helping her up.   
  
"Night, Daryl," Sophia says as she balances herself on her feet. Daryl just nods, then realizes maybe that's rude or whatever.   
  
"Uh. Yeah, night."   
  
Carol smiles at him over Sophia's head and follows her daughter out to the hallway.   
  
"Daryl was showing me how to take care of his crossbow," he hears Sophia say as they make their way down the hall. "He said he'd teach me how to shoot it too."

Shit. Maybe he should've asked Carol first if that was okay.  
  
"Really? Wow," Carol says. A door opens, shuts. Then they're gone. 

Even though it feels like all Daryl's wanted for days is to be left alone, now that he's got it the room feels weirdly quiet. He makes his way over to the window seat, plonks himself down in it, bow by his side. He can't see for shit - the room behind him is all lit up so the outside reveals nothing but darkness. If he cups his hands around the window he can see someone - T-Dog, he thinks - sitting on top of the RV, a shotgun perched over his knees. Keeping watch. Well, it's something at least. Daryl toys for a minute with going back out there and joining whoever the hell it is, but he reluctantly lets the idea go. He feels shaky just from the trek to and from his tent, from hauling up and down the stairs. Part of himself just wants to push through it all, bend his body to his will, but he knows from experience if he does that, it'll be worse in the long run. And the last thing he needs now is to collapse sometime when they really need him because he never took the time to heal up right.   
  
But fuck. He wants to be out there. He wants to be anywhere but here, doing anything but sitting and waiting. He likes the quiet but he doesn't like this, the feeling that makes his back itch, the feeling of waiting for something to go wrong. Waiting for some storm to hit. 

He's more than half asleep when Carol knocks on his door again. He jumps more than he should - it's that feeling, of knowing that something is coming. But if something bad had happened nobody'd waste time knocking. When he turns around, Carol is still hovering in the doorway.  
  
"Hi. I just - wanted to see if you needed anything, before we - settled in for the night." 

"Don't need nothin'," Daryl mutters, standing up from the window. "If I did, could get it myself."  
  
There's a quirk to the side of Carol's mouth. If she were different, Daryl feels like she'd almost be rolling her eyes at him. "Of course you could," Carol says. "I just thought I'd check." 

Daryl grunts. "How's Lori?"  
  
Carol's smile goes a little fixed. "Oh, fine," she says. "Her and Shane are just - having a talk."   
  
Yeah. A talk.   
  
"I'll - go out tomorrow. Get Rick an' them back." Daryl wonders as he says it if Rick'll be enough to pull Shane in. Daryl had never liked Shane - stupid pig rattling on about something or another, and he hasn't forgotten what Shane had said about Merle. But at the beginning Daryl'd thought that's just how Shane was with Dixon's, or people like them - with people he saw as dirty rednecks, drug addicts, criminals. But now Shane's acting that way more and more in little moments towards other people, normal people. Towards Rick. And Daryl's not sure what that means for everybody.   
  
Carol must be able to sense this shit too, because she doesn't argue with him just then. Just bites her lips and nods. "We - we'll see in the morning. If they're not back yet.:  
  
Well. Shit. That's different than earlier. Daryl grunts again.   
  
"Well, if you're - sure you don't need anything," Carol says.   
  
"M'good."  
  
"All right, then. Good night."  
  
"Uh - yeah. Night." What is it with everyone here wishing everyone a good night? Daryl doesn't know if anyone's ever said that to him in his life. Maybe his ma, before she died. When he was a little kid, or whatever, but why are grown ass adults saying good night to each other? It's another thing about being with these people that doesn't make sense. Just a way of being that is completely alien to him.   
  
People. Weird as shit.   
  
That's the last thing Daryl thinks before he settles into the bed and falls asleep. If he's going after Rick and them in the morning, he better be rested. 

* * *

Daryl doesn't have to go looking for Rick and Glenn and Hershel, because they're back the next morning. 

And they brought the storm with them. 

* * *

"You gotta get rid of 'im," Daryl says for what feels like the hundredth time. Rick is rubbing at his forehead, a look of pain on his face, like he's tired of having this conversation. But Daryl's not tired of it, Daryl's just getting started.   
  
"We couldn't just leave him behind," Rick says again. "He would have bled out, if he lived that long -"  
  
Good, Daryl wants to say, good, he should but that's not the way these people work. That's something Rick won't hear, so he has to try another way, but words have never been his friends and he feels his own head start to hurt as he tries to figure out what to say that Rick will understand.  
  
"He doesn't know where we are," Rick continues. "He's been out cold, blindfolded. Once he's better, we give him a canteen, send him on his way."   
  
It's the decent thing. The honorable thing. Daryl isn't decent or honorable. What he is is alive, and he plans on staying that way, on keeping Sophia and them that way, and Rick doesn't understand - 

"He's one of them," Daryl hisses instead. It's a fucking full war meeting, with Carl and Sophia up in Beth's room with Jimmy, and Daryl's skin crawls with all the eyes on him, but he pushes on. It's what he has to do. "He was the one keepin' watch, that got away. His people, they're -"  
  
"We know," Rick says, almost gently. "I know, Daryl. We ran into more of them in town. But he's - he's just a kid. Wounded. He's not a threat."

"Not a threat?" Shane breaks in. "How many of them were there? You killed three of their men, you took one of them hostage, but they ain't gonna just come lookin' for him?"

Daryl agrees with Shane which makes him uncomfortable for a whole different reason. But sure, maybe Shane's not a good guy, maybe he's out of control. But it doesn't mean he's not right about this.   
  
Or maybe Daryl's just not a good guy either. Well, fine. That's fine. He doesn't need to be good. Never has been before. Doesn't need it now. 

"They left him for dead. No one is looking -"

And then it stops being about Randall, it stops being about safety. It's about Rick and Shane, about Hershel's barn, about where they all stand. And then the meeting is over and Daryl hasn't made them understand, hasn't done what he needed to, hasn't been able to speak right.   
  
Damn it.

* * *

Daryl storms off once the meeting breaks up. His side gives a slight protest but Daryl ignores it. It doesn't matter. Fuck his side. Fuck these people. Fuck them. Daryl doesn't know why he's surprised, why he's so angry. No one's ever listened to him. Not Merle, not his daddy. Not teachers at school or Merle's friends, not anybody. Nobody thinks he's got something worth saying and that's fine, whatever. He can take care of himself. Hell, he hasn't tried to get anybody to listen to him for years. But what about Carol and Sophia? What about Carl Grimes and his stupid hat? There's people here who need protecting and Rick's trying to protect fucking Randall like he's - 

"Hey," someone calls after him, and Daryl just keeps his head down and keeps moving. "Daryl, wait."  
  
It's Carol. Of course it is. Bitch won't leave him alone, hanging off him all the time, trying to mother him or some shit. He doesn't need a mother. He doesn't need her or Sophia looking at him like some kind of puppy or any of them. He does better on his own, or with Merle. Hell, why is he even still here? He should be back in Atlanta, combing the streets for Merle, he should be - 

"Daryl, please."   
  
"What?" It flies out of his mouth, furious, and Daryl doesn't have to turn around to see Carol flinch, which makes him angrier. He didn't ask her to follow him. He doesn't ask for nothing, normally. He doesn't ask for shit he can't get. He -   
  
"It's - I know. It's okay."  
  
"Y'don't know shit," Daryl spits. He's facing her now and he can't tell if she's relieved he's looking at her or if it just makes her more nervous. "Y'know who that guy is? Y'know what his people done? Hell, two of them were tryin' to snatch up your own daughter and you're just going to let him -"  
  
"I don't want him here either," Carol bursts in, and now she seems angry too. "You think I want him anywhere near Sophia? You think I want his people coming here, looking for -" She swallows suddenly and something twists in Daryl's gut and some of the anger leaks away from him. Shit. What a fucking situation.   
  
"If you - what do you think they should do?" Carol asks, and Daryl's gut twists again, unpleasantly. Because he knows what they should do. They should cut him loose right now. Not waste medical supplies on him, not try and fix him up. Just let him slip away before he knows whats happened. It's kinder than what Daryl did to his friends out in the woods. It's kinder than what Randall's people would do to them. 

But it's not kind by any stretch. It's a cold hard thing, a monstrous thing, that's what Rick will think. And Daryl'll say it now and Carol will think he's the monster. 

Well. Whatever. Let her think that, if they're all alive and untouched to think it, what does it matter?  
  
But he doesn't need to say anything. Carol can see it in him, maybe, can read it on his face. But her face doesn't change. She just says, softly, "Talk to Rick. Explain to him -"  
  
"He ain't gonna listen to me," Daryl mumbles. Because in what world is a cop going to take advice from a Dixon?   
  
"He will," Carol says. "He - he trusts you. He knows you're -"  
  
"What?" Daryl asks. It comes out rough and harsh and he sees Carol's body tense at the tone which makes him madder at himself. But he also wants to know. What do Carol and Rick and them think he is?   
  
But Carol doesn't say. She just says, softly, "He'll listen to you. If you explain it right, he'll - "  
  
Yeah. Because Daryl's so fucking good at explaining things.   
  
"Mom?"   
  
It's Sophia - hobbling across the yard on those crutches. Carol's going over towards her immediately. 

"What are you doing out here? You have to be careful, Hershel said your ankle -"  
  
"Hershel came to see Beth and when I came downstairs you were gone." Sophia leans agains the crutches. "And I'm - I'm feeling better. My ankle, I mean. Soon I won't -"  
  
"That'll be up to Hershel," Carol says. Her eyes are darting around like she thinks Randall is gonna pop out of a bush somewhere, like he's blowing some high pitched whistle to bring his group after him. "Come on, let's go in. You need at least another day off your feet."   
  
Carol starts to walk Sophia back, but Sophia drags a little bit. "Is Daryl coming?" he hears her ask.   
  
"Not right now," Carol says. "Maybe later."  
  
Yeah. Not now. 

Apparently now, he's got some work to do.   
  
If only he had the slightest idea of how to do it. 


	13. What Needs to Be Done

If he thought Rick would have listened, Daryl'd have done things differently. 

He doesn't know why Carol - Carol, who should know better than any of the rest of them what it's like not to be listened to - thinks he's got some kind of power to make Rick pay attention to what he says. He knows he doesn't. No one has ever listened to Daryl - not even Merle, who had, in his own way, been better to Daryl than anyone else in the world. No way Rick, Officer Friendly, Dudley Do-Right, is going to take Daryl seriously. Maybe because for all he's probably seen of people working as a cop, he doesn't understand people like Daryl. He doesn't understand what they can do, even ones who look like kids, ones who are scared and dumb and just following other people. 

Daryl's done enough shit following Merle to know that followers aren't any better than leaders, if they just keep following. 

So he doesn't go find Rick. There's no point to it. No point wasting time trying to convince Rick of something based on Daryl's gut. Rick's got his own gut he trusts. If Daryl's gonna get anywhere, he's gotta get proof. Something. Information. Something that will make Rick understand what Daryl already knows - that the kid is dangerous. That there's people here that need protecting. That there's things that need to be done. 

Daryl does things the only way he knows how to do them.

It's the only thing that can be done. 

* * *

Daryl can't talk good, can't be persuasive or shit, can't wheedle information out of people or interrogate them. It's not what he knows, not something he's ever been good at. 

He's fluent in violence, though. That's a language he's known his whole life. Hell, he'd probably learned it before he learned to talk - his pops wasn't one that would have enjoyed a fussy baby. Merle's a goddamn wordsmith with violence, mostly aimed away from Daryl, unless he's high enough not to care. Daryl's never been as good as Merle at talking or hitting, but he knows enough to get the job done. 

It's nothing that he hasn't had done to himself, after all. 

They don't think to guard the kid, which makes Daryl bristle with even more anger. What, they think the kid can't do any harm, all banged up like that? These people are so stupid. They're stupid and naive and it's gonna get someone killed. Maybe Carl Grimes with his stupid hat, or one of Hershel's girls. Or Sophia, limping around outside on them crutches, easy pickings even for a guy with one gimp leg. 

They put him in the slaughter shed. Which maybe is a sign or something. Daryl tries to take it as one, as an okay to just get rid of this guy. He remembers the feeling in the little house in the woods, Max gurgling as he went down, arrow in his throat, the way Greg's head practically exploded when the bullet hit him. He's killed people now. Two people, what's the difference if it's three? Is the situation so much different here? Randall's dangerous. He could get them all killed. Daryl should just kill him. 

Maybe he's getting weak himself. Too much time around all them, around Rick and his fucking golden attitude, Hershel's do unto others bible bullshit, Carol's trusting gaze. He knows he should just go in and kill him, just make it easy.   
  
But he's weak. He's not Merle. And if he murdered some guy, the others would make him leave. He knows they would, tries to tell himself it'd be worth it, to keep Sophia and Carol and even annoying as shit Carl safe.   
  
But the idea of leaving, of being alone, makes his chest feel tight and his fists clench. He's not leaving. He won't.   
  
It'll have to be Rick's decision. That's all. 

And Daryl's the only one who can get him the information to decide. 

* * *

Randall is awake in the slaughter shed when Daryl goes in. His hands are tied together at the front and he's trying to pick the knots apart with his teeth. He stops the second he sees Daryl, and the determination on his face melts into something more pitiful, more pathetic. 

"Hey man - hey, thank you, for - y'all saved me, I'm real grateful - but I gotta take a leak, you think you could -"  
  
Daryl doesn't say anything. Just watches. The leg is bandaged up, white and clean from the knee down. What a waste of supplies. 

"Or I could - I could wait, I guess." Randall lets out a sigh. "I - I mean it, man, thank you. I - those guys I was with, they just left me, man." Daryl can hear real hurt in the kid's voice. Dumb kid. "It'll be nice to be with people that - "  
  
"Who says you're gonna be with people?"   
  
The boy stares at him. "You gotta be with people now. S'the only way to stay alive."   
  
Yeah. Kid isn't wrong. That's why Daryl's doing this instead of just smothering the kid with a pillow and taking his chances with Rick's justice. 

"I - I mean, I can't go back with the others," Randall continues, his tone going almost whiny. "I mean - they left me, man. They -"  
  
"Bet some people wish they'd been left alone by them guys." Daryl thinks of Greg's wheedling tone, his hand clutching Sophia's doll. _How's that sound? You want me to be your new daddy?_

Randall looks wary all of a sudden. "What?"

"How many were there, the people you were with?"  
  
Randall's dumb but he ain't stupid. He can sense a trap somewhere, can tell he's heading onto shaky ground, but he can't figure out where it is. "I - "  
  
"How many in your group?"  
  
"I - they ain't my group, really, I just - I met 'em on the road, they took me in, they -"  
  
"How many?"   
  
"I don't know - uh, ten, maybe?"  
  
"Y'can't count to ten?" Daryl starts unwrapping the bandage from the kid's leg. Looks at the stitches Hershel's done, neat and even. 

"Or - I don't know, we've lost people, people - they weren't bad guys, really, there's real bad guys around, out in the woods, killed two of my friends without even -"  
  
Daryl pulls out his knife and the kid's eyes go wide, frightened. Something twists in his gut. He can practically hear Merle behind him, hear his dad. _Fucking pussy_. He tightens his grip on the knife. The kid whimpers. "No -"  
  
"How many people?"  
  
"You're crazy, man, I ain't - I ain't done anything, I swear, I just - they weren't bad guys, they had a camp just like this one, women and children like you got here -"  
  
Daryl's got his knife up at Randall's neck before he can finish. "How'd you know we got women here?" He doesn't mention the kids. Doesn't want to give Randall that much information. 

"I - I could hear them, when they drove me in. I - I wasn't -"  
  
"What else you hear?" Daryl shifts the knife down some. Starts bringing it closer to his leg. "You know where we're at?"  
  
"How - how could I know that, I was blindfolded -"  
  
"You know where your people are at?"

"I - we were never anyplace more than a night. And they - I mean we were confused in town, we thought - they thought y'all were those guys killed our friends in the woods, they thought -"  
  
"How'd you know we ain't?"  
  
Randall seems to look closer at Daryl and all the color drains from his face. "You - you were - I wasn't -"  
  
"What, they wasn't your friends? Just said they were. You weren't lookin' for those women with them? Bring 'em back?"  
  
Randall swallows. "I - " 

"The women and children at your camp, they want to be there? Or they trying to run like them girls you were lookin' for?"  
  
Randall looks like a trapped animal. "I - I'm trying to cooperate, man, I said, I'm not like those guys, I just - I just stand lookout, man, I was alone - we - the women at camp, they aren't - " He looks around wildly. "They're - they want to be there, they - they were alone too, they knew - we've all got to do our part, that's all, that's what -"  
  
Yeah. Daryl knows about doing his part. 

Randall seems to be able to tell that Daryl's not believing blanket denial, so he changes tactics. "But - but we go out sometimes, scavenge. Just the men. Sometimes we -" Randall swallows. Daryl can't tell if he's faking or not. "One night we - we found this little campsite -"  
  
After that, it doesn't matter if Randall's faking or not. Daryl has what he needs. 

But he doesn't leave right away.

* * *

When he leaves the shed his hands are tacky with blood and Daryl's not sure he remembers a hundred percent how it got there. 

The kid is alive, Daryl knows that. He can hear him still, whimpering in the now too silent stillness of the slaughter shed. The sound drills into Daryl's head, along with other things he wishes he could unhear.   
  
_A man and his two daughters -_

_Real young. Real cute -_

_The daddy had to watch while these guys -_

_I didn't touch those girls, no, I swear, I didn't -_

Daryl thumps his head against the wall of the shed. He wants to rub at his eyes, suddenly exhausted, but his hands are covered in blood and he doesn't have time for that anyway. He's got work to do. He's got to find Rick and tell him, he's got to explain why Randall can't stay, give him evidence. He's got to - 

"Daryl?"  
  
For a moment Daryl thinks, wildly, that it's coming from the shed. 

But instead, he opens his eyes and Sophia Peletier is standing in front of him, crutches under her armpits, Daryl's bow slung across her back. 

"I - I was - I saw you heading out here and I thought maybe you'd - you said maybe we could - shoot targets behind the shed if - but - " Sophia's staring at his hands, her breathing getting quicker, her voice higher pitched and scattered. "I - your hands, you're - you're bleeding - "  
  
Randall gives a sort of yelling sob from the slaughter shed then, and Sophia flinches back when she hears it. She's not stupid. She knows what pain sounds like. 

And she knows what monsters look like. 

Daryl doesn't say anything. There's nothing to say, not really. He had to do it. For her and Carol and Carl and even nosy ass Andrea and old fuck Dale, for Hershel and his girls and Patricia who doesn't let people wear hats at the table, for Lori Grimes and Rick and T-Dog, hell, even Shane. For Daryl himself. He had to do it.   
  
But she's scared enough without him talking. So he doesn't say anything. Just stays there, against the shed wall. 

Sophia's limping away almost faster than he can blink. 

He waits until she disappears from view, up onto the porch of the house, balancing awkwardly. She almost falls once and Daryl resists the urge to run over and catch her. He'd probably scare her shitless. Dumb kid. 

Once she's gone, he goes off to find Rick. To explain to him. To make him listen. 

If he knew how, Daryl'd have done it another way. But he doesn't. He doesn't know anything other than this. 

He knows pain and he knows how to do what needs to be done. 

That's all that matters, in the end. 


	14. Smoke

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for self-harm. Some sections of dialogue taken from the season two episode "Triggerfinger."

All Daryl can think, over and over on fucking repeat, is how much he needs a cigarette. 

He thinks it when he tells Rick and Shane what he's done - Rick's eyes fixed on Daryl's scraped up knuckles with something like horror, until he hears what Daryl's saying and his face goes somehow darker, more horrified. The almost approving look from Walsh, which makes Daryl's hands itch in a way that has nothing to do with the flaky blood drying over them. He tells them over and over what he learned - thirty men. Heavy artillery. Not friendly. Local. ("Stop," the kid had blubbered, "Stop, stop - I'm not like them, I'm not, ask Maggie, ask -") 

"They roll through here, our boys are dead," Daryl says for what feels like the hundredth time, Rick's face starting to set in something other than horror, more like disgust - at Randall, sure, but Daryl feels certain that the disgust is also for him. For people like him and Randall, animals. Daryl scrubs at his hands. "And our women - they're gonna wish they were."  
  
He says women but all he can see is Sophia on those fucking crutches - wouldn't even be able to run for it, wouldn't get anywhere, clutching that stupid doll - Carol, her arms all bruised up again like when Ed was around, her face - Glenn's horse girl and the little blonde sister, Andrea not fast enough with her gun - them knocking the stupid hat off the head of Carl Grimes, cornering him and then -

By that point the conversation has gone over to the main group again - Hershel's come in, his face going practically curdled when he hears about Maggie and the kid going to school together. Dale, suddenly fighting with everyone about the value of human life - yeah, whatever, Daryl thinks, his fingers practically twitching for a cigarette, human life, sure, but what's human isn't so clear anymore. Walkers ain't human. Are people like Randall? Like Merle, like Daryl? Where's the line there? Andrea gripping her dumb ass gun tighter and tighter, Glenn looking exhausted. 

Carol ain't there. Probably off with Sophia. Well, good. He doesn't need to see her looking at him like the others all are. Even though she's the one told him to do it. 

Daryl pushes off after that - can't listen anymore to the chatter, the endless back and forth. Doesn't have shit to do with him, anyway. He got them the information they needed. Let them do some of the hard work for once. 

He goes to his tent - Merle's tent, which still smells faintly of sweat and cigarettes, almost taunting him as he turns the thing upside down. Runs through all his shit - some of his shit is still inside, his bag, his bow off god knows where, strapped to that kid's fucking back, but he'd checked all that last night and hadn't seen a single useful thing. His hand is throbbing from where he split his knuckles on the kid's teeth. But he keeps looking, the itch crawling around his brain like something living, until he's out at Merle's bike, practically dumping out saddlebags just to find one slightly bent cigarette at the bottom. 

That's all he needs. He's gone. 

He goes up to one of the fields he and Sophia stumbled through on their way back. He doesn't want to see anyone. There's the remains of a chimney out there and Daryl ducks in there. Out of sight. It reminds him of when he was a kid, taking off through the woods to find the places that didn't belong to anybody, the places that could be his for a little while. 

His hands are shaking when he lights the cigarette but his mind is starting to slow down some, that frantic itch about to be scratched. He needs this. He needs it. 

That's the last thing he thinks as he takes a drag and presses the lit end into the blood smeared skin of the back of his hand. 

* * *

Daryl knows he's fucked up. He's known it a long time.

Sometimes he thinks it's because of his old man. Because of how he was raised. Sometimes he just needs something - just needs something to hurt, that feeling when you can't _feel_ anything anymore except the physical sensation of pain - the pinch of fingers digging into skin, bruising him up, the relief when he picks his cuticles until he bleeds, the ache and burn of blisters coming up on his skin. Sometimes Daryl just needs _something_.

(He knows the real word for it - _when you do wrong, you get punished,_ his dad's voice in his head with the phantom crack of a belt - but those sounds twist in his gut and his mouth and his head and thinking them makes things feel a million times worse, so he uses other words for what he needs and pretends it's not because of how screwed up he is, how messed up his childhood was, that even after all this time he's still that stupid fuck up kid who needs punishment.)

Sometimes, in really dark moments when even drawing blood or burning isn't enough, Daryl wonders if he's like this because of what his dad did, or if what his dad did was because he was like this. Maybe even as a kid he'd needed this, needed pain to help wipe other things away, maybe his dad had known that and maybe everything his dad had done, whupping him with a belt til he bled and putting out lit cigarettes on his skin, that time he'd cracked him over the head with a bottle and Daryl'd gotten a head full of broken glass, broken ribs and loose teeth and dislocated fingers, maybe all of that had just been his pa doing his best with a kid that was so obviously fucked up. 

There's a few scars - not a lot, just a couple, circular burns that dot his upper arms, a long mark on his stomach, one on the inside of his knee - a few scars that Daryl's not sure anymore where he got them. From his dad or himself. 

Daryl can't let himself think about that shit now, though, or the whole moment is going to spin into something he won't be able to stop. And there's no fucking privacy here, no closed doors, nowhere someone isn't going to come up on him and try and talk to him. He doesn't have time to lose control. He's not trying to lose control, anyway, he's trying to wrestle it back, whatever way he can. He can't think about his dad ( _when you do wrong -)_ or Merle (what Merle would say if he saw, _the fuck's wrong with you, the fuck_ ) or his ma (did she feel like this, was this why she'd never left his daddy, why he'd come home one day to a burned out shell that was meant to be home) or Uncle Jess ( _I ain't gonna hurt you, kiddo, c'mere, I don't bite_ ) or Sophia's wordless look, her face as she limped away, the fear - So he pushes all those thoughts away, blocks their voices out, and instead tries to focus on the feeling, the sharp ache in his hands, the skin that's already feeling rough and tender. He latches on to the hurt and tries not to think anymore. 

He's not as successful as he'd like. 

* * *

Daryl's not sure how long he's out there. After a while time gets hazy, measured in the sluggish throbbing of his hands, the cooling of the stones against his back as the sun goes down. The sky is painted red and pink like something from a picture but all Daryl can do is blink at it and think, oh. Getting dark soon. 

He knows he should go back but he's not sure what there is to go back to - to people looking at him like he's trash, an animal, to everyone arguing over what needs to be done. He could move his tent up here, maybe. Get out of everybody's way. Stop living in that fancy fucking house playing pretend. His side still hurts some, but he's had worse. Nothing a couple days won't fix. He'd trade that soft bed in Hershel's house for privacy in a minute. 

Of course it's when Daryl's thinking about privacy, about being alone, that Carol comes up on him. 

He'd say she snuck up on him except even here, now, out of his head, he's still got half an ear listening. He hears her coming, the scuff of her shoes through the grass, the intake of breath as she climbs the hill. But Daryl doesn't move, doesn't stand up. Doesn't do anything except wait for her. Maybe because there's no outrunning the inevitable - he'd learned that good enough, as a kid. And maybe because a part of him still doesn't feel better. A part of him still swirls with too much thinking and if he can't make himself hurt bad enough to forget it, maybe Carol can. Maybe that's what she's come for. So he doesn't move. He waits, head leaned against the rock, eyes focused on the ragged hem of his beat up jeans, hands on his knees. He waits for what's coming. 

"What?" he barks out as Carol rounds the corner. He's not looking at her, still looking towards the ground, but he doesn't miss her flinch, her inhalation of breath. He scared her.   
  
Even after everything, Daryl thinks, his thumb digging into one of the new blisters on the back of his hand, he can't stop fucking up. 

"I've been looking all over for you."

Daryl doesn't respond to that. So? She'd found him. Whatever.

"Finally Carl said he'd seen you heading this way." Of course. Fucking Carl. "It's getting late." Daryl almost scoffs, looks at the sky. The way the light is shifting. The red.

"Ain't even dark," Daryl mumbles. Carol takes a step forward, and this time Daryl's holding back a flinch. He steadies himself. She ain't gonna hit him. (Probably.) Let her do what she's gotta. He can take it. 

"It's almost time for supper."  
  
This time Daryl can't hold back a scoff. "Ain't hungry." Like the last dinner had gone so fucking well.   
  
"You haven't eaten all day."  
  
Suddenly rage cuts through Daryl, hot and sharp and not like pain but close enough because it fogs out the thinking and the feeling shit, so it's almost as good. What's it to her, if he eats or doesn't? He's gone a hell of a lot longer than this without food. He's not weak, he's not some lost kid, doesn't need someone trying to fucking mommy him -   
  
"Said I ain't hungry," he spits out, and he looks at her then. It's easier angry. "A'right? Y'done your bit."   
  
"What's that supposed to mean?" Carol says it like she honestly doesn't know and that fuels something in him even hotter.   
  
"Means y'can tell all them -" He's up on his feet and he doesn't remember getting there. Just sees himself throwing his hand out, to point down the hill towards the farmhouse, lit up against the coming dark, and sees how the movement makes Carol stiffen and still. Well, fine. Let her see him, then. He doesn't know what these people want from him. He's not like them - never sat down at a table and passed plates along like someone civilized, never turned away from getting his hands dirty. Never thought twice about hurting people who deserved it, and probably some who didn't, neither. He's not like them, he never will be, no matter how many fucking books they shove at him or kids who talk to him. Daryl's no better than this. Most of the time, he's worse. She might as well figure that out now. "Tell 'em y'tried and I ain't comin' and they won't think worse of you. Ain't like none of 'em want me down there anyway. Put 'em off their feed."

Daryl hears himself talking and it's almost like he's listening from far away. It's something that happens a lot when he gets this angry - like the real Daryl is somewhere above his head and he's listening to someone else. Daryl sounds like Merle when he gets like this, chattier then he ever is without rage fueling him.

He sounds like his dad. The way his words slur together, the poison he can feel in every sound. His accent thick enough to cut with a knife. Mountain talk, he calls it in his head. When he was a kid, before he'd started school, he'd never known anybody to speak any different. 

"That's not true," Carol is saying, her chin jutting out, her fists tight. "I want you there." 

"Ain't you a peach," Daryl spits. "Bet that girl a yours don't feel the same." That almost shakes the anger away - the memory of her face, how pale she'd gone, those freckles standing out like they were drawn on, the cringe backwards out of arms reach -

"That's - that's not true."  
  
But that's a lie if he ever heard one, and that brings the anger back in him, a rush of relief, feeling something other than guilt, than - "Bullshit."  
  
"Is that why you're - Daryl, she understands. Or she will. I understand. You had to -"  
  
"Yeah I fuckin' had to!" Daryl explodes, his own fists clenched. "Y'practically ordered me to! An' even if you hadn't, I'da done it anyway! Wasn't gonna let no -" 

"She'll understand that. She will," Carol says quickly, as if she can hear the rebuttal on Daryl's tongue. "She's - she's just not used to - "

To what? People like Daryl? Yeah she is. That's why she'd run - well, limped - herself away. Because she knows what happens when you stick around people like Daryl. Somebody ends up hurt.

"Don't do this," Carol says suddenly, and Daryl takes a moment to check himself because he didn't know he'd done anything. He's still standing, fists still clenched, but he hasn't got any closer to her, hasn't made a move. So what's he meant to stop doing? "I'm not going to let you pull away."  
  
The fuck does this woman _want_ from him? 

"You've earned your place," Carol continues. Her face looks open and vulnerable - _weak_ \- and it makes him wind up tenser than before. Because what does she know about earning, about places? About Daryl? Nothing. Fuck her. 

"If you spent half your time mindin' your daughter's business 'steada stickin' your nose in mine, maybe she wouldn't've gotten lost in the first place!" Daryl shoots back at her, and this time when she flinches, he doesn't feel anything. He doesn't. This isn't how it's meant to go. She's meant to be yelling at him, telling him off. Laying into him. Doesn't she get that? "Maybe if you kept an eye on her, she wouldn't've been sneakin' around seeing shit she shouldn't've! Why you out here pickin' at me when she's the one all upset? The fuck's wrong with you? Y'think it'll do her any good, have some -" He doesn't know the word for himself in that moment, just smacks his chest with his beat up hands, the kid's blood still smeared over them. " - across from her at the dinner table? Scare her shitless? Hell, maybe you just don' care. Prob'ly ain't nothin' new!" 

Which is low, even for him. 

"Go ahead," is all Carol says in response, and the tone in her voice makes Daryl mad. Because it's just - quiet. Almost meek. Accepting. And that's not what he wants. That's not what he's looking for. When is she gonna get angry? When's she gonna fight back? 

"Go ahead and what?" Daryl snarls. But she doesn't answer, which maybe is a good thing, because maybe Daryl doesn't want to know. Maybe he does know, somewhere deep down. ( _When you do wrong, you get punished_. Whose voice is it in Carol's head - Ed's? Is she looking for the same thing he is?) But the thought makes him feel sick and angry and this isn't how this was supposed to go. This isn't what Daryl wanted when he came up here. 

But whatever was going to come next, whatever stream of poison that was gonna pour out of his mouth, it's all off the tracks when Carol's voice changes again, no longer meek or accepting, no longer bracing for a hit.   
  
"What happened to your hand?" 

"What?" Daryl asks stupidly. His hand? The fuck does she care? Both his hands curl into fists, try to hide themselves away. "I -" What?   
  
"Your - " Carol's got her hand around his wrist before Daryl can pull back, and he feels himself freeze. Her fingers are cool and smooth and his skin feels suddenly too hot. 

"Leave it," he mumbles, tugging at his wrist. He feels wrong footed, awkward. He should pull harder, shove at her, get his own back, but he can't seem to figure out how to do it. He feels thick and clumsy, like he's gotten caught doing something wrong. Which he hasn't. It's no one's fucking business but his own, what he does on his own time, to himself. He doesn't owe them anything, he doesn't - 

( _When you do wrong, you get -_ )  
  
"Daryl -"  
  
"Damn, woman, I said leave me be!" Daryl barks, his tug getting more desperate. But she doesn't let go. If anything, her grip tightens. "Ain't none of your business. M'fine -"  
  
"Don't," Carol says sharply, and it's so different than any other tone from her that it makes him stop trying to yank his arm away. She's looking at him steady and sharp and firm and almost angry. "Don't say it's nothing or you're fine or it doesn't hurt or you deserved it or - just don't, all right?" 

Daryl scowls and yanks at his arm, hard. She lets him go but she doesn't stop looking at him. "You don't know shit," Daryl says. He looks at his hand - fuck, she's causing some kinda fuss over nothing. He's almost hurt worst from busting his hand on the kid's teeth than whatever he did himself. And whatever the fuck she's saying isn't - he's not like her. Or Sophia. He never had been. 

"I know," Carol says. She's still looking level at him, but there's something in her eyes - it's not pity, because if it was he'd deck her, lady or no lady. Daryl'd almost call it understanding, even though she'd just admitted she didn't know shit. Unless she meant 'I know' like she did know shit. Daryl's head feels thick and foggy and mixed with anger and the lingering slowness from his smoke earlier, the sickness from listening to Randall talk about them girls ( _real young, real cute_ ) so who the hell knows what Carol's trying to say, what Carol knows or doesn't know.

All of a sudden Daryl is exhausted. He misses Merle, misses the feeling of knowing someone inside out, of knowing how to act and what to expect. These people are mysteries to him, with strange ways and unknown language, like he's been dropped on some alien planet where none of the rules are clear, where dead people walk around and people look to him for advice and protection.

He misses Merle, because for all Merle was a shitty brother and probably a shitty human being, he understood Merle. Now he doesn't understand anything and it's disorienting as shit. 

"Sophia sent me up here," Carol says suddenly. "She - she was worried you'd get hungry."   
  
Daryl squints at her. What? "Ain't gotta lie," Daryl mumbles. He's pulling his sleeve over his hand as best he can, but Carol isn't even looking at it anymore, which is a relief. "Didn't mean to scare her," Daryl finds himself saying, even though he doesn't mean to. Who cares if he scared her, some stupid ass kid poking around where she shouldn't? The kid isn't his problem. She's not his. She doesn't matter. 

But still. He hadn't meant to scare her. 

"I know," Carol says. "She - she knows too. She might not be able to - understand everything right now, but - she knows that what you do, it's just - you're looking out for her."  
  
He's not. Or if he is, he's doing a shitty job of it - murdering two guys, not shooting Randall when he had the chance, getting thrown from that fucking horse, dragging her all over the woods with a busted ankle, scaring her left right and center. Letting her little friend get turned into a walker and gunned down. Not teaching her how to fire that fucking bow. He's barely able to look after himself, after all this time. He's certainly in no shape to be looking after a kid. Especially one like Sophia.

"She cares about you," Carol says softly. "She -" Carol swallows, hard, and continues, looking away from Daryl now, eyes fixed at the sun setting over his shoulder. "She hasn't exactly. Had the best. You know." Carol shrugs, suddenly inarticulate, more like Daryl than he's seen her. "But you brought her home. That means something." Carol's looking back at him now, her eyes fixed on his, her voice clearer. "It really means something, Daryl."

Daryl doesn't know how to respond to that. So he just shrugs too. "Din't do nothin' special," he says. "She did the hard shit."

"You did plenty," Carol says. She takes a step closer, her hand settling on his shoulder. Almost too light, after the death grip she'd had him in before. "You did. All right?" Daryl doesn't answer, and Carol's hand floats away. 

"It's getting late," Carol says finally. "They'll start without us." She takes a few steps away from him, then stops and looks at him. "Sophia'll wonder where we are."

And somehow Daryl finds himself following her down the hill, where the little lights of Hershel's farmhouse wait for them.


End file.
